


Back in The Gift

by wordsphoenix



Series: wherever I'm loving you is best [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But yeah they will probably be together, DEEP FRIENDSHIPS SLOWLY BECOMING LOVE, Healing, I mean they already love each other but still, M/M, THE RELAXING AND RESTFUL TIME THEY ALL DESERVE, The Free Folk in the Gift, Wholesome Love, Winter too harsh for beyond the Wall right now, bed sharing friends CAUSE THEY EFFING WANT TO OKAY, eventually, jon pov, tragically canon compliant, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-05-28 08:37:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 43,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19390465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsphoenix/pseuds/wordsphoenix
Summary: When the True North proves too desolated to inhabit so soon, the Free Folk head to a town in the Gift to wait out the winter. Read for lots of Jon feelings, Jon and Tormund sharing a hut because they want to, the Free Folk building a life (however temporary) in the south, and as many family reunions as I can work in over time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had to write this. Just healing and building a new town and love and everything. There's at least one more work to after and it's honestly looking like the honeymoon tour of Westeros. Arya WILL APPEAR IN THE SECOND WORK but in this one she just writes letters. Mostly a Jon healing fic.

Jon awoke with a start to find that the body next to him was not mounting an attack, but sleeping.

Tormund. He’d let himself drink too much last night, gods, they must have fallen asleep. A glance out the tent flap revealed it was just dawn. Felt too early to be awake, in a winter like this. Jon fell back into the warmth of the furs. His tent had so many Tormund had burrowed in but left more than enough for Jon; he could never get warm.

He was warm enough then. Warm as he was going to get short of jumping into a fire, anyway. The heat of another body in the confined space had lasted much better than the little warmth his half-dead body provided. On the rare occasion Jon had felt comfortable enough to bring it up he’d always been told he felt just fine to everybody else. Supposed it wasn’t that kind of cold.

Before he could consider that any farther, Tormund jerked awake. “Snow?”

“Yes. Fell asleep. I’m unarmed.” He stuck a hand out to prove it.

Tormund blinked away his momentary confusion and glanced around the tent. “How did you get so many furs?”

“You asked me last night, I think. Told you there were more to go around when everyone was dead. You said everyone wasn’t dead, we weren’t dead, and after that I don’t remember much because being alive seemed reason enough to drink ourselves to sleep.”

“To sleep, eh? Don’t think it was so peaceful as that. Recall a lot of laughter. Maybe some shouting.”

“If we’d been shouting someone would have come to stop us. It was the middle of the night.”

“Aye, and my people have different ideas about manners and quiet than yours.”

Jon rubbed his face and sat up, resigning himself to being awake. “What do you mean?”

“I mean shouting’s a part of being alive, and until being alive stops being a surprise, the northerners aren’t like to turn away reminders.”

Jon rolled his shoulders. “We should get moving. No way of knowing how many more days we have until the snows start to come faster than we can shovel them out.”

“Aye.” Tormund got up and shoved out of the tent.

They’d been using the castle walls as shelter against the wind, but none of the rooms was sealed enough to sleep in. Not to mention Jon was loathe to lay claim to a bed before anyone else had one.

Three days north of the Wall had proven that waiting out the winter wouldn’t be an option. The Night King may be dead, but he’d taken most of the life in the north with him; on the way from Castle Black to the ruins of a long-abandoned town in the Gift, they’d found more game frozen to death than living.

The lands near the villages were much more sheltered by hills and forests than the great stretches of farmland farther out. Weeks ago, when he’d still been headed north through the Neck, Jon was reminded how badly the wars had impacted the kingdoms’ winter food supply. No one to work the land meant less and less food. Small wonder they’d had to beg for everything they could get in the Night’s Watch, near the end.

Sansa spoke of reinstating it, on his first and second passes through Winterfell, but both times Jon had made it clear he did not intend to honor the servitude meted out as punishment by the lords assembled in King’s Landing. He belonged to new lands now, lands where his sister was queen and no man would deny him- a former king, in their eyes- the right of freedom.

In a twisted way his former title guaranteed the Free Folk more freedom in the south than they would have found otherwise, even with Sansa as ruler. Jon lived among them, legitimized their presence in the northlands. And they were long done with violence, as were the northern lords.

All that remained was to make it through the winter. Gods willing it’d be shorter than the Night King had wanted it.

“Jon!” He turned to find Gorwynd approaching, tucking her hammer into her belt. “Where next? I know ye don’t want to be in charge, but you’re the one knows the most about this place.”

Jon sighed and glanced around the yard. There was a crew of fifteen shoring up the main keep, which was little more than a tumbling stone hall and a few ruined rooms. Despite the cart full of supplies Winterfell had managed to spare, they’d still needed to set up a smithy and begin sending people out for lumber and stone on their first days there. “I don’t know. So much of the old town’s just foundations. No one’s argued over land so far?”

“Not as far as I know. Plenty sticking to one spot until we have time to make our own.”

“Good. Seems best to leave them to it. The only things we need now are food and a road.” And a leader, but, as Gorwynd had deducted, it wasn’t going to be Jon. “Do you need anything from me?”

“Just work. Expect the others’ll catch on soon enough. Leave you with nothin’ to do.”

Jon contemplated that as he helped work on the keep, as he walked among the structures going up around it offering the best advice he could on how to merge southern building techniques with northern ones. The Free Folk adapted to new land quickly. It was later Jon was worried about, when the snows finally subsided and they had to decide whether they would all remain settled in the Gift or some would travel back north. Even so, it wouldn’t be his problem beyond his own choice. He was free, too. Fugitive to the Six Kingdoms but protected by Sansa’s pardon. If he went north again anyone who wanted to stay in the Gift- in the homes they were building, the land they were making their own after Sansa had promised negotiating their freedom come summer- would have to fend entirely for themselves. Though Jon had no doubt they’d be capable, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go north. The Gift had summer snows, was familiar in climate and near enough to visit Winterfell if he so desired. The True North was another thing, cut off from the land he’d known when he didn’t have to be. Were there even enough of them left for some to go north in summer?

“Never knew a man to think so hard.”

Jon started and turned to see Tormund appraising the day’s work. “Not thinking hard. Just thinking. How was the day’s hunt?”

“Wouldn’t know. I was building. Helping a family. Plenty looking for people to share, though, and help.”

Jon hesitated.

“You think too hard. You do. Come build with us tomorrow. You’ll learn how to make this place better. Maybe even start on one, if you want.”

“A keep or a house?”

Tormund shrugged. “You don’t seem the type to want twenty empty rooms. But what do I know?”

Jon shook his head. He’d had his own rooms, his own tents, even the Commander’s chambers at Castle Black, but something that was truly _his_ \- “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

He spent the rest of the day thinking about it, and at dinner he asked Tormund if he’d help, if he’d share, until they could get another place built.

“You were warm enough the other night. And who am I to say no to someone watching my back?”

Jon couldn’t disagree, though he’d like to think that kind of suspicion wouldn’t be necessary for years to come. “Start tomorrow?”

“If the others can spare you.”

It turned out the others could spare him.

They were getting good at supplementing the wood with the stronger stone and mud structure the Free Folk used for more permanent buildings; the only problem, apart from having enough material, was keeping the area warm so the mud could set instead of freezing.

An easy enough problem to solve, when you camped in the structure and kept the fire going.

Tormund spoke like they were continuing a conversation. “Not used to sharing?”

Maybe they were. Jon had been looking into the fire, trying to think of the best way to divide the building, if at all. He glanced up. He and Tormund were sitting by the fire; most of the others that had eaten with them had already retired for the night. “It’s not that. Just thinking.”

“Again.” Tormund heaved a sigh. “You don’t always need to be thinking, Snow. Do you good to stop every now and again.”

Jon laughed, shook his head. “You were me you’d have got used to it. Plenty to think about, trying to keep an eye on all the living and all the queens besides.”

“Only one queen living now,” Tormund said.

“That we know of.”

Tormund stared for a long moment. Then, “You know, even if there was another queen-”

“It wouldn’t matter to me?” Jon asked. “When my sister’s ruling one kingdom and my brother six more?”

“It might matter. But it wouldn’t be your responsibility.”

Jon considered that. For as much as he detested the idea of having any power over the Free Folk, he was unwilling to abandon them to customs they were only just learning. But if Sansa or Bran were in danger- “I can’t leave them again.”

“You’re not. I have a feeling the world is done with wars for a while.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“You’ve hardly known life without one.”

“What about you? You’ve never known life without one.”

“Difference between being the rebels your whole life and always being involved in the squabbles of stupid lords,” Tormund said.

“Nothing that happened at the Wall could be called a squabble between lords.”

“Maybe not. But that war is over, too.”

Jon looked away from Tormund’s gaze, too searching, too pressing, and into the fire again. Even after the weeks going north and south again he hadn’t come to accept that the war was over, not really. The war in King’s Landing had been easy to call over when Bran sat the throne and Danerys had died at Jon’s hand. The war in the north was another thing. No time to consider it before marching south, no time to imagine Winterfell as peaceful again after everything that had happened there.

“We might have a problem, you know.”

“Problem with what?”

“Thinking too hard.” Tormund gestured between them. “I don’t know if this will work. If you’re thinking too hard.”

“This what?”

“Sharing a house with you.”

Jon sighed. “You were the one who offered. And you know me. You know I think too much.”

“When you have to, maybe. But you don’t have to anymore.” There it was again. His insistence.

“Why do you keep reminding me?”

“You seem to need reminding.” Tormund’s expression wasn’t accusatory, or annoyed; it was steady, honest, like few people had been with Jon in years.

“I know the war is over. Even if I don’t act like it yet.”

“You may need more time. But you shouldn’t forget. That the war is over. You shouldn’t spend so much time getting over it that you forget to get over it.”

Jon wanted to argue, to rise from his seat on the ground, maybe, so Tormund would understand he wasn’t a child, that he didn’t need taking care of.

Except then Jon thought of Sansa, and Bran, and Robb, even Ned, and he realized that maybe that didn’t always have to be true. That maybe that wasn’t how things really worked, even for a king.

“The fight’s gone out of you. Does that mean you agree with me?”

“Shut up,” Jon said. But he didn’t deny it. Because he hadn’t had a chance to stop, not in years, not ever, really, so of course it took someone else reminding him for it to feel real. Of course it did.

“Do you want to talk, little crow?”

“I’m not a crow,” Jon said, and met his eyes, defiant. “I haven’t been since they killed me.”

“You still wear black.”

“What I was given,” Jon said. He threw off his outer layers, then, reached into the tent for some of his blankets, put those on instead. “Now I don’t look like a crow.”

“You look free.” Tormund’s smile was blinding in the half-dark. “Have to get you a proper coat tomorrow.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here have an old gay married couple

The snows were picking up, and in their haste to finish building most opted for completion rather than comfort. The smaller spaces would help keep the heat, anyway, and come summer it’d be easy enough to expand. With even foundations crumbling, it’d be simple to blend two plots into one. Jon wondered how many would choose to put down roots here rather than heading back north. Wasn’t his concern anymore.

No. That wasn’t true. These were his people now. He’d joined them, been accepted by them, and was one of them even if all the lords near enough to shake a stick at would be more than willing to claim him. These people hadn’t claimed Jon; he’d claimed them. That was what it meant to be Free Folk- choosing each other, choosing your family. For as long as it had been since Jon had lived as one of them he remembered that much. It wasn’t easy to forget, that kind of acceptance. Not after a lifetime of the opposite.

His and Tormund’s place- because he couldn’t think of it as just his, didn’t even know if he wanted to- was finished within the week. It was unlike anywhere Jon had lived before, one open space with a firepit and chimney in the middle. Best for radiating heat throughout the place, even if they did put up walls. Didn’t make sense to yet. Not when every breath of body heat was welcome. Not when wights still walked in his dreams, when vicious queens still lived and wanted him dead.

Tormund kept doing it, telling him he was thinking too much, and for as much as it bothered Jon he knew he needed it. Knew it helped. Without the reminder he could have fallen into an old role, doing too much for people who didn’t need it or receding to the very edges of things like the ghost he’d been so often in Winterfell. Instead Jon worked, offering help where it was asked for and nowhere else, doing just as much labor as he did advising when it came to the keep and the winter crops alike.

If not for the necessity of a meeting place they might not have rebuilt the keep at all. Anything that concerned the group would be decided by a council of agreed-upon leaders. As Mance’s last surviving general, or something akin to it, Tormund was naturally chosen.

“You weren’t there,” he said, pulling off his boots and setting them by the fire.

“Why should I be?” Jon asked.

“I know you don’t want to lead them, but that doesn’t mean your voice isn’t welcome.”

“My voice.” Jon thought about that. Tormund wasn’t asking for his leadership, wasn’t asking him to order anyone to do anything, wasn’t asking him to take responsibility. The only thing Jon need take responsibility for would be his whether he liked it or not; no one else could very well explain Westerosi customs- or Northern Kingdom customs, now- to the Free Folk. “When’s the next meeting?”

“Three days. Most of the buildings should be finished, and we’ll need to make sure all jobs are taken care of.”

“I’ll be there,” Jon said.

Tormund settled a foot or so away from him, reached out a hand to shove his shoulder. “No arguments?”

“Why would I argue?”

Tormund held his gaze in challenge. Then he grinned. “Didn’t take as long as I expected.”

“For me to stop acting like a king?”

“For you to stop acting like our lives were still your job.”

Jon shook his head. “They haven’t been. Never were, apart from getting you through the Wall and keeping you here. I was never Mance.”

“Not even Mance took responsibility for the lives of all of us. He tried, oh, he tried, but a man like that? Seen all he’d seen? With us around him? We wouldn’t let him.”

Sometimes Jon forgot how close they’d been. The way such bonds of cooperation, if not friendship, had been necessary to convince the Free Folk to stay united. And Tormund had been Jon’s friend. Still would be, so long as Tormund kept watch over their peoples’ safety- Jon was a valuable ally. “It would have been easier if he’d lived.”

“You think so?” When Jon said nothing, Tormund added, “No use thinking that way now. If there’s one thing you’ve learned I’d hope it’s to not look back. Silly me, thinkin’ you’d learned.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t do that.” Sansa was alive, Arya and Bran and Sam were alive, Theon’s sister and Gendry Baratheon and Tyrion fucking Lannister and Tormund, and Jon himself, they were all alive. “I think I get what you meant. When you said the Free Folk weren’t going to complain about making noise.”

“In the night?”

“Yeah.” Jon tipped his head back, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “I’m alive, damnit! I’m alive!”

Tormund laughed, yelled himself. “That’s the spirit, Snow!”

A second later there was scratching at the door. The second Jon had opened it Ghost barreled through. “You called him,” he said to Tormund.

“ _You_ called him,” Tormund said, “but alright!” And he howled. Then he looked at Jon.

“No.”

Tormund was grinning ear to ear. “Come on. Don’t let us forget you’re a Stark.”

Jon could have protested. Said he was a Targaryen, or a Snow. Said they’d made enough noise and were pushing their luck already.

Instead he howled. It dissolved into laughter, the kind that bent him over and made his stomach ache, and within minutes Jon was sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath. When he had it back, finally, “Why do you call me Snow?”

“You never told me not to. And I think you’d try to punch me if I ever called you Stark.”

Jon rolled his eyes even though Tormund couldn’t see it. “You could call me Jon. I don’t call you Giantsbane.”

“That’s a title, not a name.”

“Jon’s a name.”

Tormund sighed. “Things work different, here in the south. Snow’s what you’re called. Only friends call you Jon.”

“We share a house. Think we’re friends.”

Tormund was silent for a second. Then, “We were never around the Free Folk, before. Not like to call you Jon around those southern fucks who don’t know better.”

“If we’re lucky we won’t have to see another of them until the winter’s over. Longer, even.”

“You want me to call you Jon, then?”

“Jon’s all I have left that’s just mine. Snow was never mine, even if it felt like it.”

“Of course it felt like it. You’re of the north. It’s melted snow that cools the fire in your veins.”

Jon had never thought of it like that. As a cancelling out, or a balance. “Think that’s why I’m not crazy?”

“All of us are crazy, Jon. Not your fault you killed a queen.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, it isn’t.” Tormund sat up, stared, so hard Jon had to look at him. “You did what you thought you had to at the time. Doesn’t make it your fault you did it.”

“That makes no sense,” Jon said, but he sort of understood what Tormund meant. Jon couldn’t blame himself for King's Landing, no matter how much he wanted to. Couldn’t blame himself for how many people had died at the Wall fighting whitewalkers, even if he wanted to. His being there hadn’t changed anything, hadn’t been able to stop anything or save anyone. If he had tried to stop Danerys some other way or fought the Night King himself he probably would have died again. “Is it terrible that I’m alive?”

“No. I asked myself the same thing, once. Had the same answer. It isn’t a trade. You can’t exchange your life for anyone else’s.”

Stupid. He knew that. If it was a trade he’d have given it up for Rickon. Ygritte. Robb. Catelyn, even. Ned. “I still killed her.”

“You’ve done worse.”

“Than kill a queen?”

“Than kill a mad woman,” Tormund corrected. “Her blood didn’t make her a queen any more than yours makes you a Targaryen.”

And that was right. It was. Because Jon wasn’t a Targaryen, blood or not. He was a Stark. Or a Snow. But never a Targaryen. “She said she’d have no children but her dragons. I didn’t believe her.”

“Did you think it’d be you?”

“No. It would have made sense. Would have been easiest. But I never thought, even when it was the only choice... I could never see it.”

“Did you want children?”

“Never. Didn’t want them to be bastards. They would have been. Couldn’t marry a wildling. Couldn’t marry anyone. And even after they named me King in the North, even after I knew that if I kept being king I’d need an heir... even then I couldn’t see it.”

“What about now?”

“I’m a man of the Night’s Watch.”

“There is no Night’s Watch.”

“All I’ve ever known in this place is war.”

“Not this place. Your sister’s queen now. And your brother rules the south. The Night King is dead.”

“The Night King is dead,” Jon echoed. All the more reason. But then, “I’d make a shit father.”

“You’d make a good father. As good as yours, if the stories are true.”

“Ned Stark died for honor.”

“Didn’t make him a bad father.”

“I blamed him for a long time. For not protecting them. Even though it was almost fine, in the end. Even if Sansa and Arya, at least, are alive.”

“What got you to stop blaming him?”

“My own men murdered me. I learnt that even if honor meant nothing, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to die for.” Jon sat up. “He wasn’t supposed to die, you know. Sansa told me. They were going to make him join the Watch. He would have lived with me, and then... I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Wouldn’t have wanted to be a Targaryen king just because he’d told me.”

“Maybe he wouldn’t have told you.”

Jon shrugged. “You’re right. None of it matters. It’s done.”

Tormund met his eyes. “Do you believe that?”

“I do.” He wasn’t lying. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d said he was fine and hadn’t been lying. “I do believe it.” Jon wasn’t fine now, but he knew it was over.

“Good. Best get some sleep.” Tormund stood and walked past him, went into the tent.

They still slept there even though the house was up. Jon hadn’t made himself a bed yet, wasn’t sure he even wanted one. And it was warmer in the tent, in case the fire went out.

He didn’t need to keep making excuses. He liked sleeping next to Tormund. It made him feel safe.

Jon went to the next meeting. They didn’t need much input from him, but his reminder about the necessity of roads- because even if they hardly interacted with other towns they’d at least want to keep trade open- was taken to heart.

“Don’t have many roads in the north,” Tormund said as they left the keep.

“Don’t have many wagons, either.”

“What are you doing now?”

“Need to learn how to keep food. You lot are much better at it than our northerners ever were.”

“Longer winters.” A few steps. Then. “I don’t know much about keeping food myself.”

“Come with, then.”

“Alright.”

They learned from a very old couple, so old they’d been retired from fighting years before even Tormund was born. A few others came to learn, as well, a young woman, three men, and Gorwynd. “Should have learned years ago. Thought I’d be fighting me whole life,” she said with a shake of her head.

“So did we,” one of the older men teaching them, Hranulas, said. “Good to stay useful even if I can’t swing an axe.”

Baegeir, his companion, laughed. “You can still swing an axe. Cutting firewood last night, weren’t ye, old man?”

“Couldn’t cut firewood if I was an old man.”

“Ahh, shut it. Any of ye babes know how to cure a grown thing?”

“I’m fifty-eight,” one of the men protested.

“Rest me case,” Baegeir said. “Pass the vinegar.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> splashy times

Jon spent the next three days pickling and curing things, and by the time he thought to stop he had enough to need a shelf.

Except Jon didn’t know anything about building a shelf.

Tormund crashed in just then, noisy as always, talking before the door was shut. “Good we’ve all got shelter. There’s a storm coming down, I know it.”

“How do you know?”

“Bad knee. S’pose I could’ve told you I was a warg, but I don’t think ye’d’ve believed me.”

“I wouldn’t have.” Jon stared at their food supply with renewed bewilderment. “How fast d’you think I can build something to hold all this?”

“Don’t have the fastenings for a chest.”

“I meant a shelf. Or a table, at least. We should have a table.”

“Tables need chairs. Mean to build those, too?”

“We’ll have to eventually.”

“True enough, that. Didn’t think you’d last long on the floor.”

Jon snorted. “Don’t even know if I want a bed. May not be worth the effort.”

“Southerners and their down mattresses.”

“Maybe if we could find something alive with feathers within fifty miles of here.”

Tormund laughed. “Furs and hay work fine. Though I’ve been on the move so long I can’t say they’d be welcome.” Even at Winterfell he’d camped with the Free Folk. Never left them.

“Tormund?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t you have someone- someone else to stay with, I mean?”

“Tired of me already?”

Jon tried not to blush at that. “No. I just thought... you had a family, didn’t you?”

“Before the war.”

“And now?” He felt stupid asking. Tormund wouldn’t have been sleeping with Jon if he had somewhere else to go.

“My daughters stayed at Winterfell.”

Jon started. He knew a few had been too weary to keep going, had even considered waiting out the winter in the town, but- “I’m sorry. I should have...”

“What, asked me? When you were half asleep on the way back north, or the second time we were at Winterfell, when you were hardly better?”

“You’re my friend. I should have asked.” Jon thought of their conversation the other day, of all the things Tormund asked him. “I knew about them. You told me.” He had, a long time ago. “What about their mother?”

“She didn’t make it to Hardhome.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. S’not your fault.”

“Still.”

“We hadn’t been together. Not since Eilritte was small.”

“Is she your youngest?”

“Fifteen. Dastin’s a year older.”

“What was their mother’s name?”

“Mara.”

“Why did they stay?”

“Stayed to learn. How to fight like southerners. And there aren’t many their age left alive. More for them there, at least for now.”

Jon wanted to protest, to say that spending time with a father they hadn’t seen in years was more important than starting their lives somewhere better than an abandoned village in the middle of nowhere. No one he’d ever met had listened to an argument like that, not until they’d learned for themselves. “Would they have gone back north?”

“I think they would have. At least to see me, if not to stay.”

“I would’ve gone back to see Sansa.”

“You still will, even if you go north.”

“Will you go north?”

“I don’t know. Will you?”

Jon looked away. “No idea.”

“Don’t lie to me, Jon.”

“I’m not. I intended to stay, to help the people who want to stay here, but they may not need my help. And if they don’t...” he met Tormund’s eyes again.

“If they don’t you’ll go back north?”

“I’m not sure. Don’t think I will be ‘til summer.”

“Who knows how many years that’ll be?”

“Not even the maesters.”

Tormund snorted. “Best make a table and chairs, then. Come on.”

“You know how?”

“Better than you.”

It took them the rest of the day to make the table; chairs, Tormund promised, would be harder, and they might be better off trading some of Jon’s food for someone else to make them. When Jon protested that they were hardly established enough a village to be trading instead of sharing, Tormund reminded him that they were more established than the Free Folk almost ever were, at least in recent years. Hardhome had been the exception, necessary for fishing and trade in addition to serving as the only stronghold they had so near the Wall.

They put the table in the corner Jon had been using to stack all the food. At least now it wasn’t on the ground.

“What’s next?” Tormund asked.

“Do the Free Folk often make beds?”

“When we’re staying this long somewhere.”

“Maybe that, then.”

“You know,” Tormund said, going to sit near the fire, “The point of being free is that you don’t _have_ to do anything.”

“What, like make a bed?”

“You can do what you like.”

Jon inhaled. “Like sleeping in the tent with you.”

“Stupid to pitch a tent in a building. And I wouldn’t. Go away, if you didn’t want me to.”

“I thought-”

“That I’d still be sleeping in that tent with you if I had an excuse not to? Look around. This room’s plenty big.” Tormund’s expression was honest. Nothing else.

“We’re not together.”

“What, like those old fucks down the street? Don’t have to be fucking to sleep next to someone. Sometimes it’s nice not to be alone.”

Jon thought. Realized if he kept staring at nothing a second longer he’d get scolded for it. Went to start pulling the furs out of the tent.

When he woke up it was to find his head on Tormund’s shoulder. Jon rolled away, careful as he could, and was relieved that the snoring didn’t let up.

Ghost had been gone for a few days, and could feed himself besides. Still, they were low on bread. Another thing Jon would need to learn to make unless one of the Free Folk who’d been sharing with him decided to become a baker.

He hadn’t spent time in a proper Free Folk village before, didn’t know how they traded. Everything in the Watch had been shared. He’d had the run of Winterfell as a boy, and whenever he returned. Jon had never once had to use money, though he’d spent a fair few hours begging for it- if not for men or supplies- on the Watch’s behalf. Always in letters, always met with deepest regrets.

They would need money, if they were going to keep trading with the people who came their way. No doubt trading would be fine at first. The northerners preferred trading when they could anyway, and Jon had no doubt Sansa would see them treated fairly by their neighbors.

“We’re going to need a cow,” he said to himself.

The snoring stuttered. “Come back to bed.”

“I’m up.”

“S’too early.”

“You don’t even know what time it is.”

“Neither do you. I’m cold.”

“I was afraid your beard would catch, close as you wanted to sleep to the fire.” Although it had got low. Jon went to add wood.

“Thanks for caring. Now come back to bed.”

“I’m not tired.”

“That’s horseshit. You’re five years behind on sleep, at least. And I don’t have your wolf to keep me warm. Have to do with the smaller one.”

“I thought I was a crow,” Jon countered, crawling back under the furs anyway.

“You can be both. Your brother’s a tree, and a raven, and a king. You’re a king, too.”

“Not anymore. Not a crow anymore, either.”

“Little wolf, then.” Jon would have protested if he wasn’t convinced Ghost weighed at least as much as he did. “What did you say earlier?” Tormund hadn’t opened his eyes, had barely moved despite the growing clarity of his voice. “About a cow?”

“We’re going to need one. For milk.”

“Got goats.”

“Goats’ milk isn’t as good.”

“Horseshit.”

“You need to learn more curse words.”

“Go to sleep, little wolf.”

Jon did.

When they got up for good and proper it was nearly midday. The town was wide awake, finishing preparations before the first bad storm came in. The clear skies might have made him doubt if Ghost didn’t trot in around sunset. His fur was uncharacteristically clean. “Been swimming?”

Ghost just stared up at him.

“Damn,” Jon said.

“What?” Tormund was just coming in, from what activity Jon had no idea.

“We should go down to the stream. Get a good rinse before the snow comes.”

“Won’t need to walk to the well when you can get a bucket of snow just opening your front door.”

“Will the snows be that bad?”

Tormund shrugged.

Jon couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a decent bath. “Haven’t had time to be clean in so long.”

“So get clean. I won’t stop you.”

Jon grabbed one of their buckets and started piling furs into it.

“What are you doing?”

“No point getting clean if all these are dirty.”

“They’ll take hours to dry.”

Jon shrugged.

“Not to mention they’ll smell even worse wet.”

“We can stop at Gorwynd’s. She’s got plants to burn, doesn’t she?”

“Aye. Don’t forget to get some on the way, if you don’t freeze your arse off.”

Jon kicked another bucket towards him. “I’m not going alone. Come on.”

Tormund stared at him. “I may be stupid, but I’m not that stupid.”

“Would you rather bring the water all the way here from the well?”

“We don’t have a tub,” Tormund said, and he started helping Jon, anyway.

“Plenty of broken barrels down in the keep’s basement. Use one of those.”

“It’ll make a shit tub.”

“Maybe. Still better than a frozen stream or washing from a bucket.”

“Ought to find a metal one. Hold the heat better.”

“I’ll go down to the smithy tomorrow and ask. How should I word it? I know you can’t spare more than a short sword’s worth of anything, but would you mind making me a bathtub? Sure she’ll love to hear it.”

“You can always ask your sister. The queen must have a tub to spare.”

Jon snorted. Now that all their furs and clothes were gathered, the only thing between him and a face full of icy water was the walk down, which promised to be cold in and of itself. “I do need to visit Sansa. We should have maps. And books. And some ravens. That way we’ll be able to send news.”

“What are the books for?”

“Teach you how to read. If you can read a book you can read a map.”

Tormund shook his head but said nothing.

Every step closer to the stream made Jon consider turning back. Consider. He wouldn’t do it, couldn’t, not when he thought of a week or more being snowed in. Besides, he was of the north. He’d been in freezing water before. Never mind then he’d been drowning-

“Jon.” Tormund’s voice snapped him back to the present.

“Sorry. Sorry.” They were standing at the stream; Tormund had already upended his bucket and was starting to work on the furs.

“You’re not going to drown this time,” he said, too casual, like he was commenting on the weather.

“Didn’t think I was,” Jon said. He started on his own laundry.

By the time everything was clean they were soaked up to the elbows, not to mention the frozen patches on their knees. Jon took a steadying breath and began stripping off. The water came up to his waist at its deepest there. He wouldn’t have to dip his whole head, if he didn’t want to.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring into nothing again until Tormund’s voice brought him out of it. “Jon.”

“What?”

He got a splash to the face in answer.

Before Jon could register the cold as anything other than a shock, he leapt forward, swung his foot through the water to give Tormund a decent soaking. Tormund replied in kind, dislodging so much water Jon’s hair was dripping. They kept on for a few minutes, until the wind whipping through the trees made it feel like the water would freeze on their chests, and both of them sank in to their necks.

“We should catch some fish,” Jon said through chattering teeth.

“Scared ‘em off,” Tormund replied, peering into the water. “Wait.” He nodded to Jon’s right.

Jon looked down to find one brave soul had swum back in their range. But the cold was deeper than his skin now; he didn’t know how much longer he could stand it. “M’too cold.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Not fast enough.”

“Try.”

Jon tracked the fish for a moment. Then he darted a hand out, fast as he could, and felt it slip through his fingers. “Seven hells!”

“Doesn’t matter. Come on.” Tormund clambered onto shore and held out a hand for Jon.

Jon hauled himself up. Followed Tormund to the rock they’d lain out clothes on in the hope they’d dry instead of freeze. Jon was too cold to tell if they had. At least they were warmer than the water.

When they were back inside they laid everything out on the table or the floor, put the rest near the fire. It was full dark by the time Jon was warm enough to croak out, “I’ll get the next fish.”

Tormund grinned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Sansa

The storm rolled in that night, and were it not for the sounds of the fire and Tormund’s snoring, the wind may have kept Jon awake.

Ghost didn’t sleep much. Mostly he paced. Jon had half a mind to let him out, but he knew Ghost wouldn’t have come back if he hadn’t wanted the shelter.

All their things were dry, thank the gods, and warm, from being so near the fire. Jon was grateful for that, even if it robbed one excuse for closeness.

But then, maybe they didn’t need one. They shouldn’t. Jon had been around long enough to know that much. What he and Tormund were to each other didn’t matter to any of the Free Folk, and it shouldn’t matter to anyone else, either.

Would’ve been easier not to care if Jon hadn’t found a reason- and a good one, at that- to return to Winterfell so soon. There’d be no chance of him going back north if he didn’t leave the Free Folk with more than a common language and a passing understanding of how lords behaved. Even if Sansa gave them freedom in all true ways, they’d still need to be able to send and receive news, still need to have an idea of the terrain without having to go and map it themselves. It was the least Jon could leave them with.

Staying had seemed likelier than leaving until Tormund had brought it up. After months being near him the thought of having no one- friends, maybe, but none he knew or trusted half as much- was unthinkable to Jon. He’d been alone enough. He didn’t want to be again, even if that made him selfish. Even if it made him mad. End up in Winterfell if he had nowhere else to go, he knew that much.

He also knew he and Tormund didn’t have to be fucking for Jon to want to sleep next to him as long as he was able, forever, even. If not for all the time spent being ordinary in recent weeks, Jon would have ended that sentence differently: until one of them was dead. He didn’t have to think like that, now. Winter demanded they safeguard their survival, but peace, Jon was learning, imposed no similar demands. Jon wouldn’t have to fight for his life any more than he’d have to fight for others’ so long as they had food and kindling to outlast the snows.

And they would. They did. So what was left?

He was alive. He’d shouted it only days ago, and meant it. Felt it. He’d felt it the day before, freezing his arse off in the stream. He felt it then, piling warm clean furs on a still-sleeping Tormund.

Before this all Jon had known was fighting. Even in his youth he’d always been ready to defend, whether against a glare or a word or an underserved kick it didn’t matter. For the first time in his life Jon didn’t need to defend against anything. He just needed to live. No rules beyond the cold and the sun, no obligations beyond keeping himself fed. For how many years had those, his basest needs, been met by someone else because Jon had more important things to think about? Too long, surely. Longer than anyone should go, king or not, without stopping to breathe.

“What are you thinking about, little wolf?” Tormund opened his eyes, reached up to touch Jon’s elbow.

“Nothing. Life.”

“Nothing and life are two very different things.”

“I know. I just meant- I don’t have to fight anymore.”

“No.”

“I can’t remember what it’s like not to fight.”

“You’re doing it now.”

Jon looked around the room, at his sword and his weeks-unworn black cloak heaped in a corner. At Ghost finally settled near the fire. At the tower of food haphazardly piled on the table. At Tormund, half-dressed, leaning back on his elbows and staring at Jon with a softness he hadn’t seen since- “Sansa.” The last time someone had looked at him like that. The only time he could remember in years.

“Your sister?”

“She was the only other person. Who reminded me not to fight. That the fighting’s over. Before we left the first time. I know she was only just believing it herself, but she still reminded me.”

“She’s a good sister.”

“She is.”

“She’ll make a good queen.”

Jon raised his eyebrows. “Thought you didn’t believe in queens?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t spot a good one. May even make me a better judge.”

Jon sat, close enough to the fire to keep warm but not close enough to give Tormund any ideas about dragging him back to bed. “What do you think of the king?”

“He seems alright. Haven’t really spoken to him. I don’t mind that Lannister.”

“The one left alive?”

Tormund grunted. “I’m sure he’ll make more. It’s what everyone expects from a lord.”

“Not Bran. Not anymore. And never you.” Jon pulled a fur over his legs. “What’s it like? Having a family instead of a family name?”

“It’s easy. Simple. Maybe the arguments are more complicated. Can’t just say ‘the Lannister shit did this’ and take a cousin’s head for it. But it’s better. More fair than all these trades for glory and honor.”

“The Watch was sort of like that. Even if names still meant something, they didn’t mean so much. Maester Aemon was a Targaryen. He was my uncle, or cousin, and I never knew. It didn’t matter we didn’t share a name, because he watched over us all the same.”

“Sounds like you do know what it’s like. To have a family instead of a name.”

“I guess I do.” Maybe that was it. The whole point. Because even when Jon’d had nothing he’d still cared about people. Still wanted to protect them, do what was best for them. “If that’s all there is to fight for I don’t know if I can go north again.”

Tormund touched his elbow again, brought his eyes up. “You don’t have to fight for it. You already have it.”

Jon didn’t know if he meant him, or the Free Folk, or Sansa or Bran or Arya. He also knew it didn’t matter. “We have to go back to Winterfell. I never met your daughters.”

“They’d both wipe the floor with ye,” Tormund said, laughing. “But you’re right. They’ll be there at least until the winter’s over. And it’ll be nice to get out. Not much to do when it’s snowing so hard you can’t see a foot in front of you.”

Even when he’d been in charge Jon’s actions had been prescribed, expected of him. “I don’t even know what I like. Or what I’m good at. What I’d do with all my time. What I’d do if I wasn’t this.”

“Driving me mad, little wolf. You aren’t that anymore, remember? You’re just Jon.”

“Always thought Arya was silly, pouring over stories of dragons. Now all I can think is that even that would be better than nothing.”

“I don’t have stories of dragons, but I’ve got plenty of others.”

When there was nothing to do and nowhere to go, the only thing left was talking. They talked and talked, filling the room with stories until it didn’t matter where or when they were because there was so much _else_. Jon talked about growing up in Winterfell, about watching his father run the north and watching his brothers and sisters learn to do the same one day. He talked about the Wall, so many months spent learning how the Watch functioned under Lord Commander Mormont, what it was like when the men’s opinions held more weight. He talked about wooden sparring swords and Arya beating Theon every time, about sneaking into the kitchens early in the morning to steal the freshest bread, about having snowball fights atop the castle walls one day and swimming in the summer sun the next. He’d watched traders and lords alike pass through the castle gates, even met a fair few of them. Even young he’d walk the walls at night, alone and free in a way he never was in waking hours. Stopping once in a while to trade gossip with the guards. They’d seen him fight, knew he was decent, and most never minded him the way others around the castle did. If he hadn’t joined the Watch he may have stayed at Winterfell all his life- he might have been a guard, if not an advisor.

Tormund had always known he would fight, always known he would raid or at the very least face the crows. In his youth he’d followed his parents across the True North, trading goods and news as they went. He made friends in each new village, though he may not see them again for years. Seeing the whole of the north etched a map of it into his head. Even in the harshest storms Tormund never got lost; he’d been learning the land since he could walk. Sometimes they would settle for a while, when the snows were rough or the trade poor. Those were the dialects he knew best. Until their first stay at Hardhome, he hadn’t known much common- before the wights became a threat half the clans didn’t bother using it. Whispers of the war began in his youth and only worsened as he came of age. Some deepened their roots, intending to wait out the threat. Tormund, always restless, took the opposite path and set off alone. He lived in five villages before meeting Mara and deciding to stay. She was a fighter, but contented herself with guarding the village. Dastin was born, Tormund climbed the Wall a third time, he returned to one daughter already mounting attacks with twigs and another soon to be born. The year Eilritte turned six he met Mance, and after that...

“After that,” Jon said under his breath.

They spent a week hardly going outside. When the storm passed, Jon began preparing to go. A few others had things to do in Winterfell, but for the most part the Free Folk sent well wishes and requests to bring back things if they could. Jon wasn’t the only one who wanted a cow.

“A cow can’t travel in this,” Tormund argued. They’d taken five horses; gods willing they wouldn’t need more to bring everything back.

“We’ll put it in a wagon.”

“Heavy wagon,” Gorwynd said from Jon’s left. After the storm she’d jumped at the chance to leave the village.

“We’ll get more horses.”

“How generous do you think your sister is, little wolf?”

Jon went red in spite of himself, but Gorwynd said nothing.

He got more trouble from the men guarding the castle gates, who shouted themselves hoarse at the sight of Jon. Their taunts continued until Sansa appeared at the door to the great hall. A single “My Queen” greeted her look of amusement.

“Back so soon?” Sansa called, expression unchanged but for a hint of light behind her eyes.

“Couldn’t stay away,” Jon said, dismounting and going to hug her.

“You didn’t kneel this time.”

“Free Folk don’t kneel.”

Sansa glanced over his shoulder, at the five others who’d accompanied him. “I suppose they don’t. You’ve just missed the rush of things to do after the storm. Was that pointed timing, or were you snowed in, as well?”

“Nearly four feet high, my- Your Highness,” Bjakmar said as he dismounted. “Few wanted to travel after that.”

“Understandable. Though I’m sure they sent you with a list of supplies?”

“Had a pack of wee ones ask for sugar,” Gorwynd said.

Sansa grinned. “I’ll let you know if I find any.”

The castle was back to its former standard, fortified for the winter and strong enough to protect a queen. While the others discussed supplies with Sansa’s master of coin, Sansa led Jon through the castle, showing him what was restored to its previous state and what had been improved. It wasn’t until she showed Jon into her own corridor that Jon realized where she was taking him. “Sansa.”

“What? Mother and Father’s rooms are my rooms, you aren’t king anymore.”

“I already know this part of the castle.”

“You haven’t seen your room.” She threw a door open on the left to reveal a well-appointed bedchamber that had once been Arya’s. “She thought you’d like this one best.”

“I’m not even your subject,” Jon protested.

“Maybe not, but you are my brother. Don’t worry, Bran has Robb’s room.”

Jon followed her inside. “I don’t know how often I’ll get back.”

“You’re welcome anytime. And it’s a short trip, if you stay in the Gift.”

Jon turned to her. “I don’t know if I’m staying.”

Sansa’s gaze was fierce, unaffected by his uncertainty. “You’ll always be welcome here.”

“Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. I haven’t even fed you yet. What do you want for dinner? We can make anything. Well, anything without sugar. If I cut into the stock again the cook will be wanting words...”


	5. Chapter 5

“These’re shit letters.”

“That’s what I thought of yours, when I first saw them.”

“At least we all know ours. Down here only the highborn lads learn to write, no?”

“And those that are lucky enough to have learned parents to teach them.” Jon and Tormund were sat in the library, Jon trying to find books the castle wouldn’t miss while Tormund looked over the maps. They’d promised Sansa they would stay a few days; it’d give them some time to think of any other supplies they may need, and Jon was grateful for the change in scenery after the storm.

“Just more of the great lords keeping all the power for themselves.”

Jon considered that. The secrecy of the million tomes in Oldtown and the indisputable message in the white ravens. “If the people don’t know their history, or how others live, how could they say they know better than their lords?”

“Exactly. Better for everyone if there are no lords.”

“But even if they could all read, even if they knew history better than the maesters, how would people make decisions?”

“How do we make decisions, with no lords and none of us able to claim we truly know better than the others? We send the most respected among us to talk until they decide.”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t mean in villages. I mean bigger things. Wars. If people had to decide that amongst themselves, even the way it was done under Mance…”

Tormund snorted. “Mance had the prettiest words, and that helped. But we’ve always done things as they’re done here. Maybe a clan leader is strong enough to convince other clans to raid with him. At the end of it it’s still each person’s decision.”

“But wouldn’t they be scorned? If they didn’t fight?”

“We choose our clans, Jon. Choose our families. It may be hard to leave blood behind, but those that raided did it of their own free will. Could have left, joined peaceful clans. Chose not to.”

Jon replaced the book he’d been holding and glanced down at the table. “Do you want to try some now, or would you rather wait?”

Tormund waved a hand. “Plenty of time for that during the next storm. I’m just trying to set this in my mind for good and all.” He had a map of the whole kingdom splayed out in front of him.

“Are you learning the way between us and here?”

“For all that thinking you sure are daft, little wolf,” Tormund said, and swept his hand from Winterfell to the Wall and all the way across it.

“It’s been ten minutes! How did you-”

“It’s been half an hour at least. What do they call mapmakers down here?”

Jon blinked. “Cartographers.”

“Remember this, Jon Snow or Stark or just Jon. I’m the best cartographer this side of the Narrow Sea.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

Tormund shrugged. “Bear-lover or not, I know my way around a map.” Before Jon could protest further, Tormund stood. “Come on. Best meet my daughters before they go out to hunt again.”

Jon didn’t question that; the Free Folk had been the best hunters in the north since they’d arrived, and he had no doubt their talents were even more valuable in the deep snow.

When they made it outside, to the walkway overlooking the yard, Tormund shouted, “Dastin!” and a redheaded young woman appeared from around a corner.

She came to a stop just below them, shoulders squared, and called up, “Giantsbane.”

Tormund rolled his eyes.

“Da,” she amended with no shortage of sarcasm.

“Where’s Ritte?”

“The Godswood. She's a mind to become a healer, now.”

“Tell her to teach the maesters,” Tormund said. Then he nodded to John, and they started down the stairs. “Jon, this is Dastin. No title yet, I don’t think, unless Rabbitsbane counts.”

“I’ve slain bears three times as big as you,” Dastin said, but leaned in to hug Tormund anyway. She was an inch or two taller than Jon, and her solid stance suggested she was a formidable fighter. She carried only a dagger and a bow, both of which Jon had no doubt she knew how to use.

“Aye, and I’m sure you’re wearin’ one now.”

“I am. Got two cloaks for me and one for Ritte from the beast.”

Jon might not have believed Dastin if not for the sharpness in her gaze and the fact her cloak, clearly bearskin, skimmed the ground. “Sorry we haven’t met before.”

“You were busy.” She gripped his arm for a moment in greeting, then stood back. Her gaze was much too shrewd for comfort. “Staying a few days, are ye?”

“As long as we need to.”

Dastin turned to Tormund. “Your crow’s nervous.”

“I should have met you earlier,” Jon said before Tormund could reply. “And I’m not a crow. Not for a long time.”

“Good. I never liked crows.”

“Because ye’ve known so many of ‘em.”

“Shut up, Da. Jon, go and find my sister? Shorter’n me and hair flamin’ as this idiot’s?” Dastin nodded towards the Godswood. Her own hair was a few shades darker than Tormund’s.

“Sure.” Jon headed for the gate and tried to focus on how nice it all looked now.

The Godswood swallowed up the sounds of the yard, making it seem like there were twice as many trees between him and everyone else than he knew there to be. This, at least, held some comfort; the screams of the living and the dead had been plenty loud to break this peace, the last time he’d walked these woods. The weirwood stood as a beacon, pale branches leading him farther into the trees. He’d known Catelyn to visit the banks of the pond every time she needed certain plants. The blazing head that came into view, though, was much brighter than Catelyn’s, lighter even than Ygritte’s.

“Eilritte?”

“It’s only Ritte, but aye.” She didn’t turn to meet him. Just crouched down to pick something else. “Am I needed?”

“Tormund wanted us to meet.”

Ritte turned, took him in with one sweeping gaze. “Jon Snow.”

“Yes, him.”

Ritte raised her eyebrows. “Jon Stark?” She had the same mischief in her features as her father, and her hair fell in wild tangles to her waist.

“Free now. Maybe just Jon.”

“Jon,” Ritte echoed, and sprung to her feet. “Good to meet ye. Been a while since we’ve turned a southerner, or so I’m told.”

Jon shook her hand. “Hope I’m not the last.”

Ritte picked up her basket of plants and started back towards the yard, Jon beside her. For a while they walked in silence. Then, “I see why you southerners like it down here. Convenient. For findin’ things and meetin’ people, I mean.”

“It is.”

“Why d’you like him?” Ritte nodded to Tormund, who was now three feet away.

Gods what a clever pair those two were. “He’s the best mapmaker this side of the Narrow Sea.”

“Who told you that?” Dastin asked, arms crossed.

“Him, about ten minutes ago.”

“So ye’ve only liked him for ten minutes, then?” Ritte asked.

Jon raised his hands in defeat.

That night all the Free Folk were invited to dine at the queen’s table, and they traded stories from the new settlement at the Gift for ones about Winterfell. They’d spent the past few months shoring up the buildings nearest the castle; it made no sense to distance mouths from food, and Sansa liked to keep her subjects close. When Jon attempted to broach the Free Folks’ subjectivity to her, she waved him away. “After the winter’s over. By then we’ll know each other better.” That point was new, and a good one.

When the talk had died down and the fire burned low in the grate, Jon glanced up to see that he, Tormund, and Sansa were the last in the hall; everyone else had gone to bed. “It’s late.”

“We should sleep, I think. Jon?” Sansa rose.

Jon stared between them for a panicked moment. Tormund had known where to find him the night before, but he didn’t think anyone had seen them. “I-”

“I don’t think you’re the first person she’s met who doesn’t like to sleep alone,” Tormund said, and stood himself. He slapped a hand on Jon’s shoulder, let it stay there for the briefest of seconds, dropped his arm.

Jon didn’t know what to say.

But Sansa just looked at him, nothing but kind. “You could have said.”

“Said what?” Jon was still sitting. He was the only one still sitting.

“After months of sharing she wouldn’t judge you for thinking the quiet’d drive you mad,” Tormund said. He tapped Jon’s foot under the table, so light Sansa probably didn’t notice, but it was enough to get him to stand.

Jon tried not to wince at the scrape of his chair on the floor. Halfway down the hall he leaned to Sansa, lowered his voice. “We aren’t-”

“Do you think I would care if you were?”

Jon didn’t have an answer.

“You’re my brother. I don’t care what it is or what it looks like. And I know you. I don’t think after all that you’d pretend.”

And that deserved an answer, except they were already in the corridor and Tormund was right behind them. “See you in the morning?”

“Goodnight, Jon. Tormund.” Sansa nodded at them both and disappeared behind her door.

As soon as Jon’s door was shut he rounded on Tormund. “What?”

“What do you mean what? I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it. Loudly.” Jon threw his cloak on a chair and made for the bed, kicking off his boots on the way.

“When have _you_ ever said that to _me_?”

“Shut up and come here.”

Tormund raised his eyebrows but said nothing as he pulled off his outer layers and climbed into the side of the bed nearest the fire. Finally he inhaled, said, “Do you want to t-”

“No,” Jon said firmly. He then slid down until the blankets were up to his neck and shoved his leg into Tormund’s so he’d know Jon knew he was the one being stubborn or stupid or- whatever it was.

Except, “Southerners always been shit at talking.”

Jon yanked his leg back and sat up, glaring at Tormund. “Fine. You want to talk? Talk.”

“You’re bein’ an idiot.”

“How?”

“For one thing, your sister’s nicer to you than any sibling I’ve ever met. For another she isn’t one o’ those southern fools who cares who ye sleep with.”

“Sleep with, Tormund. _Sleep_.”

“If you don’t think I noticed she knows we aren’t fucking, ye’ve got a low opinion of me.”

Jon grit his teeth. “I don’t understand why it matters.”

“It doesn’t. That’s the point.”

Jon tried to find words for it. There were none.

“Ye think someone will see.”

“No. Yes. I- it doesn’t matter if they do. It doesn’t matter but they’ll think what they want to think anyway.”

“Am I that unworthy of your affections?” His tone was light, but there was an edge to it; Tormund wanted to know the answer.

Jon met his eyes. “It isn’t that.” Looked away again. “Plenty sent to the Night’s Watch ended up fucking each other, or- seven hells, Hranulas and Baegir have been together for years, I’m sure some men of the Watch had before-” Before and after. That was all there was.

“I can’t believe I’m telling ye this, Jon,” Tormund started, “but you should think.”

Jon raised his eyebrows.

“About why you’re upset. Why you care when you know ye don’t have to.” His eyes were soft again, concerned; he cared about Jon and understood that Jon cared about him and that was all that mattered. All that should matter.

“You’re right. I’m being stupid.”

“Try and sleep. Plenty o’ time to be stupid in the morning.”

Jon barked a laugh and slid down, trying to relax into the blankets.

“Sweet dreams, little wolf.” Tormund threw his leg over Jon’s.

Jon was glad for the comfort. But he still didn’t want to sleep. He was angry at nothing and confused at all three of them and frustrated at Dastin, who must have learned that look from Arya, and honestly…

Honestly he should just talk to Sansa.

He waited until Tormund was asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa was waiting up. 

The queen lavished her mercy on Jon by gesturing toward the armchairs near the fire and insisting he relax.

“I am relaxed,” Jon said. He made a show of slumping down in the chair and then promptly ruined the gesture by crossing his arms.

“It’s fine, Jon.”

“Of course it’s fine.”

“ _Jon_.”

“What do you want me to say, Sansa?”

“I don’t want you to say anything. I want you to feel comfortable in your own home.”

Jon could have pointed out it wasn’t his home, hadn’t been for years. Could’ve pointed out that feeling comfortable sounded nearly impossible if he spent the shortest second contemplating everything that had happened since he’d first left this place. But Winterfell would always be his home in some ways. And looking over your shoulder wasn’t something people did in times of peace. “I don’t know what to say. We were sharing a tent back in town and it- we had no reason to stop.”

“Do I need to tell you I don’t care again?”

“No! You need to tell me I’m being ridiculous and people don’t do… this.” But that was an absurd thing to say, and Jon knew it.

Sansa knew he knew it. “If I was alright marrying Loras, what in seven hells makes you think I’d care you want something more comfortable than a Direwolf to sleep next to?”

“I don’t know.” Jon slid down a little more in the chair, muscles actually relaxing this time.

“Are you mad because you want to or because you don’t?”

There it was, the question, the one Jon had no answer to even though he’d been thinking about it for weeks. “I’m mad because this somehow feels worse than if we were.” And wasn’t that a twisted mess? But it was true. And gods it felt good to say it.

“Things are different, there, I know,” Sansa said gently. “Beyond the Wall isn’t like here. Marriages, families, friendships, none of it’s the same.”

“They don’t care.” Jon dropped his hands to his knees, leaned forward a little, and said something he’d known almost since he’d met Ygritte. “The Free Folk don’t care, and it’s so much better. They don’t care I’m a bastard and they don’t care about houses and- I’m just a person, there, Sansa. Just some idiot who wants to fall asleep every night to the loudest snoring I’ve ever heard even if that’s all I ever get!”

“Is that all you want?” How did Sansa do this? Be his sister and be queen? There had to be fifteen other things on her mind as they spoke, but Jon couldn’t see any of them; she was concerned about him, focused on him.

Jon bowed his head. Ignored the direct question and went for one of its parts instead. “If I go north I’ll never see you again.”

“So don’t go north.”

Jon let himself sound afraid. “What if he wants to go north?”

“I think you’d visit anyway.”

It felt like the floor was falling out from under him. At the thought of having to choose. Again. Choose, choose, choose. “He’s my family, too.”

“I know.”

Jon looked up and found that she did.

“Arya’s half a world away. You think I’m happy about that? But I love her and I know she’s safe, and I know I’ll see her again. If that’s the best I can do I’ll take it.”

“Sansa-” Jon started, but she must have heard the indecision in his voice.

“No, Jon. You deserve this. If I deserve to be queen you deserve to be free, alright? You have to stop taking what you’re given and take what you _want_. And if this is it- gods, why would I stop you?”

Sansa was always right, how was Sansa always right? “I don’t even know what I want.”

“You’ve all winter to figure it out.”

He did. Years, maybe, of intermittent time shut out of the snow. Years to live, to think. To find what he wanted to do afterwards. “I guess I do.”

“Sleep, Jon. Stop worrying.”

“I’ll try.”

Sansa stood to hug him, and he let her. Hugged back.

As Jon finally dozed off, Tormund’s snores roaring in his ears, a moment from dinner came back to him, crystal clear and sharp even though he hadn’t found it important at the time. Sansa had asked Tormund why he trusted her so easily, was so willing to accept her goodwill when he knew they’d need a proper treaty come summer.

“I trust Jon, and Jon trusts you. I don’t think I’m wrong to trust him.”

Sansa smiled. “Finally, my brother has wise counsel.”

It didn’t sound like a joke, when Jon remembered it.

It sounded like a blessing.

Jon found it was much easier not to care the next morning.

His family was well, the Gift would be, too, and his most pressing concern was whether or not Irik could take care of the ravens.

“I swear I’m good with ‘em,” he insisted. Gorwynd and Bjakmar knew nothing about birds, Jon and Tormund even less; Irik had promised before they set off that he could handle them.

“Don’t like the smell of ye,” Gorwynd said over lunch. “Trade furs with one o’these men. That’ll change their tune.”

“Where are we going to put them?” Jon asked.

“Where were they before?” Irik raised his eyebrows.

“Somewhere the maester could get to them in the keep. Near his chambers. No idea where those were.”

“There may be a map,” someone said from up the table. “Plans, before it was built. Check the library.”

Jon was headed there anyway. Sure enough, a few minutes’ careful searching turned up information about other northern keeps. Jon’d wonder at the security of having them all in one place if Sansa hadn’t been made queen.

Near the bottom of the pile he found a few faded sheets marked with town names he didn’t recognize and houses he’d never heard of. One had a keep that looked something like their own settlement’s ruins, with a familiar pattern of shapes lining either side of the main road.

“Lucky.” If Jon hadn’t heard Tormund’s light step he might have jumped at the voice.

As it was Jon’s chest gave a lurch. Though that might be unrelated. “I thought you had things to do?”

“Aye. Did them. And Dastin’s already sick o’me, so here I am.”

“Awfully kind of you to come and bother me.”

“Please, ye’ve missed me. That’s us, right?” He pointed to one of the buildings.

“I think we were some kind of shop, before. These markings are hard to read.”

“You have many shops, in small towns like that?”

“The towns in the Gift weren’t always small. Lords had high hopes for them, once.”

“Forgive me for not apologizing.”

Jon smirked. “Only if you’ll forgive me for not caring.” He hadn’t realized he’d mean it fifteen different ways when he said it. Felt nice all the same.

Of course Tormund noticed. “Have a nice talk with your sister, then?”

“Can’t see where you get off feeling smug when you hardly said a word last night.”

Tormund held his eyes. “I said enough, though, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Jon said, glancing at the map again, “You did.” Gods this was as hard as it had ever been. It was supposed to get easier. But how could anything be easy after he’d seen so many people he cared about burn?

“Alright, Jon?”

“No.” The truth. It was the truth. “But I will be. I want to be, someday.”

Tormund shook his head slightly, smiled. “A week snowed in with my lying arse and it still took a queen to convince you.”

“You convinced me I was free. She convinced me I didn’t have to ask permission to act like I was.”

Tormund opened his mouth, as if to throw a remark back, but he must have understood what Jon meant, because he only said, “Best move these books. Won’t want to do it tomorrow,” and they went about the rest of their day in that calm, often-silent way Jon had grown to miss without realizing it.

After another night in a bed Jon decided it’d be worth it to make one. The stone foundation of their house wasn’t nearly as warm as dirt had been, and a bed was warmer still. For the first time he could remember Jon awoke and felt warm, really warm. No flash of not-warm-enough to remind him he’d been dead once.

“You look happy.”

“Do I?” Jon turned to fully face Tormund.

“I haven’t seen it much, so I can’t say for certain. But I think you’re… content.”

Jon raised his eyebrows. “Content?”

“Aye, content. Got nice words north of the Wall, too, ye know.”

“You’ve got better words north of the Wall. Five different ones for snow.”

Tormund rattled one off.

“That’s for when it’s weak, and bound to melt.”

Another.

“Thick and heavy and wet.”

Another.

“Flurries, hard to see, but they land light.”

Said one Jon didn’t know. Then, “Snow mixed with rain,” and the last one, “Ice.”

“I thought I knew ice.” Jon said.

“Different when it comes from the sky.”

“Down here we call it hail.”

“Are you?” Tormund’s eyes bore into his.

“Am I what?”

“Content.”

Jon didn’t need to think about it. “Right now I am. When we get back, when there’s nothing to do but make it through the winter… think I’ll have to learn.”

Tormund snorted. “Makes two of us. Haven’t been in one place so long since I had two wee ones and going south for good was just some fool plan bein’ spread around by a former crow.”

“And now you’re here.”

“Sleeping beside a wolf.”

Wolf, not crow. Made him warm. Teased anyway, “Are you talking about me, or Ghost?”

“Seeing as one o’ ye’s not here.”

Jon laughed and moved to get up. He hadn’t realized Ghost wasn’t in the room. Hadn’t realized he could feel safe enough to sleep like that with Ghost not in the room. Which meant he trusted Tormund, and the safety of Winterfell, and the truth of Arya’s killing blow.

Feeling safe may not be that simple outside the castle walls. But the fact he felt safe at all, and here… and that he felt safe with Tormund. Safe because he knew if something happened he wasn’t alone, wouldn’t ever have to face a threat by himself so long as Tormund remained by his side.

Gods, that was a good feeling. One he hadn’t let himself have in a long time. Almost ever, about anyone. Too close. Too trusting. Too dangerous.

And it was so much easier feeling that for Tormund when Jon had no reason to care what anyone else thought about it.

As they gathered their supplies and prepared for the ride they’d start next morning, Jon kept his distance. It’d be good to give Tormund some time with his daughters. For Jon to have time with Sansa and his old home. Time to think just a little ahead. About all the winter storms to come and how much closer he and Tormund were bound to get if they didn’t go mad and kill each other first- which they hadn’t by then.

“I know that face,” Sansa approached the wagons, which Jon was giving a final once-over before heading inside. “You’re thinking.”

“Yes. About how I can’t survive north of the Wall now I remember how nice it is to have a warm bed.”

Sansa was smiling. “Even so. You’ll come visit?”

Jon smiled. “Arya would kill me if I didn’t.”

“I’ve half a mind to go on a diplomatic trip to the Iron Islands just so I can see her as soon as she lands.”

“How many ravens has she got?”

“Enough. Told her if she didn’t come back when she ran out I’d be the one to fear.”

Jon glanced out over the yard. “They always deserved you. Someone who knows what it means to fight for your home.”

“You know that feeling at least as well as I. How many years did you spend on the Wall?”

Jon met her eyes a second. “Too many.”

“D’you have any idea what you’re going to name it?”

“What, then town?” Jon tied the back of the wagon shut and turned to fully face her. “Not my decision. Have a council for that.”

“Are you on it?”

Jon shrugged. “I will be, when I’m needed. Advise about how best to treat with other northerners. But when I’m not…”

“When you’re not you’ll just be farming and chopping firewood and seeing to the horses?”

“Maybe.” Jon hadn’t thought much about the horses. He’d spent plenty of time in the stables at Winterfell, and plenty more making sure his and Commander Mormont’s mounts were being properly seen to. “I’m good at storing food, actually. For winter.”

“Take a few spices and make a trade of it.”

“I don’t know that the tasting bit’s what I’m good at.”

“Ah.” Sansa tipped her head back towards the castle. “In any case. Take some. I know better than to expect you to visit again soon after this, and I doubt many traders will be coming your way in this weather.”

“Thank you,” Jon said. “For everything.”

“You’re my brother. Don’t need to thank me.” And before he could protest, she was making her way back to the castle.


	7. Chapter 7

Jon went to the stables, to check on the horses one last time.

Ritte was leaning in the doorway. “There’s no need to worry about her. Your sister.”

Jon opened his mouth to protest, then decided he didn’t want to give voice to his thoughts.

“Dastin will look after her for you,” Ritte said. “And me. Though I can’t promise I won’t go south, see if I can find a few maesters to teach our ways.”

“You don’t owe us anything.”

Ritte shook her head. “We’re all alive, Jon. No sense not doin’ me best to keep us that way.”

Jon smiled. “If you make it to King’s Landing tell Sam and Gilly I send my love.”

“May be too far south for me. Though if he’s with one of us I suppose he’s the most likely to listen.”

“Think he’s the smartest man I’ve ever met. Be a fool not to listen.” Jon went up to his horse, touched its head. “Someone didn’t listen to Sam once. All of us almost died for it.”

“So ye’ve known a few wise men, then, at least.”

Jon looked up. “That thing Sansa said?”

“About me da being wise? Aye, I heard it. And I see what she meant even if he’s a fool.”

Jon laughed. “He has his moments. Would like to see you more, I think, even though he missed so much. _Because_ he missed so much.”

“Not his fault the Night King came. And we’re both still alive, ‘cause of what him and our mother did for us. We won’t forget that.” Ritte took a step back, as if to leave, then added, “Ye’ll keep him south?”

“Of the Wall, you mean? Can’t keep him anywhere. Isn’t mine to-”

“Aye, I know. But you’ll get him back here, then. In case we both don’t make it up?” She was talking about if he went north. If he and Tormund went north, together.

“I’ll do what I can.”

Ritte nodded and went.

Jon thought that he’d much rather them and Sansa be around right then than Arya, because if it were Arya she’d have said all the same things and whacked him on the head once or twice for good measure. Not that he didn’t deserve it. Though that wasn’t something Jon was prepared to admit to anyone but himself at the moment, perceptive onlookers notwithstanding.

Dinner was charged with a strange sort of energy. They were eager to get back now that everything was ready, to have the supplies delivered; at the same time, the thought of being away from people again held as much regret as it did relief. This was especially true for Jon, and, he guessed, Tormund. None of the others with them had family who’d stayed behind- those that did hadn’t wanted to make the trip through the snow.

On top of all that, Jon was nervous. He knew he shouldn’t be. He knew that whatever happened with Tormund would be fine. It had to be fine, because there was no way to live through what they’d lived through together and not be something to each other. Even if Tormund went north and Jon stayed. The next time they saw each other it would still be there, that link, too violent and deep for any amount of time or distance to threaten it.

And Jon had already decided he didn’t want to be without Tormund. Not again. Not now that he was the only family Jon had that wasn’t ruling a kingdom, helping rule one, or looking for one. Not now that Jon had a chance to carve out his own place instead of having to take someone else’s. Commander Mormont’s place, Robb’s place, Danerys’s fucking place. This one was just his. He wanted to keep it.

“You brood too much.”

Jon had just got in, and Tormund was already sitting by the fire, wineskin in one hand and bare feet thrown up on a stool. Jon shed his cloak and went to sit in the other chair. “I thought I thought too much.”

“You do. But that’s different. I understand why ye think too much. S’brooding that’s annoying.”

Jon accepted the offered wineskin and took a swig. “What’s the difference?”

“The difference,” Tormund said, reclaiming the wine, “is that thinking’s got a reason behind it. Brooding’s just putting off somethin’ you know ye have to do.”

“So I’m a coward, then?”

“Didn’t say that. Just a cowardly thing, brooding. No need for it.”

“Wasting time when you don’t have to. That’s what it is.”

“Exactly.” Jon watched Tormund swallow, watched the flicker between the light and dark halves of his face as the fire moved. “Still look like you’re brooding.”

“I just need some time,” Jon said. His stomach jumped with nerves. Tormund might know what he meant.

Probably knew what he meant, because Tormund only said, “Ye’ve got plenty of that,” and set the empty wineskin on the table. “Bed?”

“In a minute. Need to brood some more.”

Tormund snorted and rose, shed one last layer before climbing into bed. “What am I gonna do with ye?” It was soft, mumbled, said as he sank into sleep.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Jon said. Took a bit longer for him to settle. When he did he got in bed, and slept.

The next morning had plenty of sun, and they were hopeful some of the snow might melt on their way. Bjakmar insisted the ground was too frozen. Irik said he and his cageful of screeching ravens were keeping their hopes up anyway.

“They like you.” Jon meant his sisters. He was talking to Tormund, had been saying something about Arya; even in the short time she’d known Tormund he knew that much, and Sansa had been clear enough.

“Aye. Mine like you. Dastin thinks we’re fucking.”

Jon shoved him hard enough that he nearly fell off his horse. “Did you tell her we weren’t?”

“Doesn’t matter. Ritte thinks it, too, I’m sure, though they’d never say it.”

“Is it strange for them? Being apart from you so long, and you and their mother not together?”

“How could it be strange? It’s all they’ve ever known. Free Folk stick to family, sure, but I told you: we make ours. Sometimes we have more than one.”

“Mance?”

“Him and all the others I would have died with.”

“You shouldn’t have lost so many.”

“Neither should you.” They went a while in silence. “Now we’re stuck with each other.”

“I can think of plenty worse people to be stuck with.”

“I’ve no doubt ye can.”

Jon could have told him, then. Not everything. Not the bits he didn’t know himself. But some. That he had no plans of kicking Tormund out of his house or his bed. That he’d follow him north. He knew Tormund wouldn’t mind. Might call him an idiot, actually, because how could Jon know in a few days what he hadn’t thought years would be long enough to understand? And Jon didn’t know the other things he wanted. Just this.

He’d tell him later. Now was for gazing at frozen stretches of white, the calm brush of wind in trees and the promise that no dead hands would shoot from the snow. Now was for watching the home he’d never got to love pass by in waves, and for thinking how lucky he was now to have the chance to love it, even if it didn’t stay his home forever.

When they were finally safe and warm again, tucked into furs next to a raging fire in a little house that they were only just filling with themselves, Jon wriggled closer to Tormund until he was nestled into his side, head on his shoulder, like he had been all those nights ago. That was enough telling him, for the moment.

Despite the lack of sugar, young and old alike greeted their new supplies- and Jon’s plans of inducting them all into life in this land, if not forever than at least for the winter- with enthusiasm. No longer would the hunters lament the lack of knowledge before having been through an area; no longer did the winter stretch blank and boring ahead of them, with nothing to do to pass the time apart from what they’d already been doing.

Not even Tormund could write a word of common, which gave Jon plenty to do himself for the foreseeable future. He was charged with teaching the children first, so their caregivers could continue work on the town. Irik was the only one who sat in on lessons.

“You’re too big,” one of the boys moaned as they gathered in the keep to do a lesson.

“I have to learn first. I’m in charge of the ravens.”

“Where are the ravens, anyway?” Jon was sitting cross-legged on a fur, the others sprawled out around him; he doubted making them all sit still and orderly would help them learn.

“Made a place for them. Now we just need a better lock, make sure none of them gets loose.” Irik glanced pointedly around the room as he said it.

Jon caught the hint. “The ravens are important. I’m sure nobody here would want to loose the chance at trading for something good- like sugar, maybe- just to give you trouble.”

A few of the children’s eyes widened, and nearly all of them nodded or muttered agreement, glad at the chance to gang up on Irik. Irik, to his credit, took it in stride. “Of course you’re right.”

The lesson went on like that, Jon coming up with reasons the children might have a vested interest in listening while Irik played the part of a reasonable student. Jon had done his fair share of teaching in the yard, but never like this- with something other than swords- and never with anyone so young. By the end they could all recognize ‘north’ and a few could even write it, though Jon wished he’d thought to bring some tablets. The best he could manage without dousing them all in ink was dumping some dirt on the ground and engraving the letters there.

“Be easier to use snow, maybe.”

Irik shook his head. “They’d get too distracted out there. Best wait until they need less convincing.”

“You mean the imaginary sugar?”

“I’d keep your voice down. Little shits’re smarter than they look.”

Jon thought back on his own childhood, and all the things he’d learned simply by staying quiet enough to go unnoticed. “I don’t doubt it.”

That evening he entered the house to find Tormund already sat by the fire, cooking an entire rabbit. “Hello.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“Good hunt today. And so have you. I heard you managed to keep the wee ones in the same place for a few hours.”

Jon laughed and set his boots near the fire to dry. “Had to mention sugar or toys every few minutes to keep their attention. Figure I’ve got a few more days before they realize what I’m doing and I have to think of something else.”

“You’re right about that. Not many toys in the True North these past few years. War’s all they’ve known. Expect they’ll be driving you mad by tomorrow. How many’d they send you?”

“Fifteen. It seemed better to start with children who knew your letters already, not to mention some people’d rather wait ‘til they know and teach them themselves.” Jon sat down and held his hands to warm. “Irik said he’d help, since he needs to learn fastest for the ravens. I’ll have to learn your letters if I want them to understand how the alphabet works.”

“Alphabet?”

“All the letters. We use instead of symbols, or- I don’t know. Apart from yours I’ve never seen another language. Only heard a few. Some clan ones, maybe. And Valyrian.”

“How many do you think your sister’ll know when she gets back?”

Jon shrugged. “Don’t even know how many she knows now. She’s been to Bravos. There’s all kinds there, she said. And I’m sure she picked up a few words of the Old Tongue, in the weeks we spent with you.”

“If there’s something west of here, they may know nothing of us. She’d have no choice but to learn.”

“She’s a fast learner.”

“So are you.” When Jon didn’t reply, Tormund added, “In the evenings, I could show you. Our letters, words you don’t know. And I’m sure they’ll pick it up even if you aren’t the best translator.”

“It’s a good idea. I- thank you.” Jon nodded to the rabbit. “That done?”

“One more minute, little wolf. Need to be patient if you’re going to teach an entire village of Free Folk how to write in common.”

An entire village, Jon realized.

Well. Gave him something to do all winter.


	8. Chapter 8

When they were done eating Tormund got out a map, one of the north that Jon had kept. Most of the things he’d brought were stored safely in the keep, but a few books and maps he’d brought to their house. No doubt Tormund would want to commit the whole kingdom to memory, and the place names would give them a good starting point, whichever of them was learning.

Jon left the map to Tormund to it and opened one of the books. He’d found the least boring history of the Seven Kingdoms he could, along with some more focused histories of the north, a few stories copied dutifully from someone’s nan’s voice, even a handful of songbooks. Mostly he’d been concerned with what information would help the Free Folk in their future dealings with the northerners and what would keep them somewhat entertained through the lonely winter. They’d stop back at Winterfell sooner or later; if they needed anything else he knew Sansa would freely give it. As queen she had every right to expect the Citadel to send books, or copies of them, should she require them.

Then again, she may have to go through Bran. Perhaps they’d need a Citadel of their own in the North once winter was over. Need some way to record everything Arya found out, at the very least.

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know much about reading, but it doesn’t look like you’re doing it.”

“Oh.” Jon yawned. “This isn’t very exciting. Suppose I may as well go to sleep before the book does the job.”

“Aye.” Tormund carefully refolded the map and began preparing for bed. “You should write one. A book about the north, or the Watch. Sure it’d be better than that one.”

“I don’t think I’m a very good writer. Most of my experience has been copying lines, begging for men or gold, and trying to convince people wights were real.”

“How do those get made?”

“What, the books?” Jon glanced back at them and then climbed into the furs. “Some maester, usually, writes them, and then if the other maesters think it’s good they have the apprentices make copies and send them to… well, I suppose it depends who needs them. The Citadel has the biggest library.”

Tormund lay down beside him. “Because that’s where all the maesters live?”

“Yes. They keep everything the maesters before them have written, even if it’s useless. That’s how Sam knew about me. The maester who married my parents…” Jon let the unfamiliarity of the word dissipate in another yawn. “He kept track of it, even though it was secret. Wrote down everything. Kept track of his shits, Sam said.”

“A man made a king or not because of some idiot writing down a list of his shits.”

Jon laughed. “Sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous. A million people in Westeros and that’s the one that made me king.” He yawned. Starting to lose track of them.

“Sleep,” Tormund said, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

The next few days of lessons did not go as smoothly as the first.

Jon had gone into the endeavor with plenty of skepticism. He knew he wasn’t cut out to be a maester, and his few encounters with children in recent years had been far from pleasant. Even so, he wasn’t a stranger to teaching; he knew how to help people identify why exactly they were having trouble learning something. How different could it be with letters?

Evidently it could be very different.

“That still doesn’t make sense,” a small girl insisted as Jon tried to teach them the word ‘Westeros’ yet again. “It’s one place. They should be connected.”

Jon took a steadying breath. “It’s the same idea as ‘north.’ We only have separate letters, and to make a word you put them together instead of making a symbol.”

“But ‘north’ isn’t just one place. It’s a direction.”

“What do you say when you’re describing where you are? Being in the north?”

Irik cut in with a grimace. “We don’t have a separate word for _the_ north, Jon. It’s just the word for ‘here.’”

Jon sighed. “Alright. I think knowing how to write already will help you, but it might be easier if you all learn the whole alphabet first.”

His sixteen pupils, Irik included, groaned.

“I know it sounds difficult, but there are only twenty-six letters. Once you know them all you have to do is arrange them to make a word.”

“Twenty-six? That’s all?” The tallest boy among them, though by no means the eldest, looked shocked. “That sounds more like a code than writing.”

“I guess it is, compared to the Old Tongues.” The group was following the difference between Westerosi common and their various strains of the Old Tongue, and they could all make an ‘n’ already. Twenty-five more to go, Jon supposed. “How many words do you have?”

“Nobody knows them all,” the boy responded, like it should be obvious. “Me mum said it was over three hundred once. Don’t know if it’s true.”

“Three hundred?”

“There’s at least two hundred, because me da was a messenger before the war, and he was teaching me sister and she counted and told me so.”

“Alright. So, you already know ‘n,’ but that one’s in the middle. And some of you may know some others, but we’re going to have to go one at a time to help everyone get it. I think if we help each other we’ll be able to learn all the letters in a few days. Does that sound alright?”

“S’not like we have a choice. Ma said if we weren’t here we’d be botherin’ them somethin’ fierce, an’ they’ve got too much to do before the winter sets.”

“You do have a choice. Free Folk always have a choice,” Jon said firmly. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Even Irik joined in on the nodding.

“Most of the people in Westeros don’t know how to read and write. You’re learning things only lords and their families would know.”

“But they don’t know any of our languages, do they?” a girl in the front asked, wide-eyed.

“No, they don’t.”

“That means we’ll be the smartest people in the south!”

Jon couldn’t disagree.

When he broached the subject with Tormund at dinner that night, Tormund laughed. “Been preparin’ for the war for years. Not to mention we haven’t really starved in centuries.”

“Because you’ve never had a siege, and you can store food,” Jon said, realization dawning like a punch to the stomach. If not for the wights they’d have been fine north of the Wall for centuries more.

“Aye. And we can all read and write, even if our writing don’t make sense to ye. Freedom isn’t the only thing we’ve got right.”

“Can’t be free if you can’t do what all the others can, I guess.” Jon rubbed his temple and picked up his cup, hoping to dull the headache brought on by political philosophy. “They’re learning well. Got all the way to ‘c’ with no trouble.”

“Which letter is that?”

“The third of twenty-six,” Jon said, and drank again.

“The wee ones are wearin’ you out.” Tormund reached for the wineskin, which Jon handed over with a little reluctance; a second later Tormund had shoved a heel of bread into his hand. “Best not be in your cups for the lesson tomorrow.”

“You know I don’t get drunk.”

“I know ye didn’t. But you’re not a king no more.”

Jon sighed and rolled his shoulders. “Neck is killing me. Years of sword drills and a stick in the dirt’s too much for me.”

“Expect your wrists hurt, too, eh?”

“My right one. Didn’t use my left...” Jon trialed off as Tormund picked up his right hand, which, in the interest of comfort, he hadn’t been using to eat. “What?”

“How sore do you want to be, eh?” Tormund asked, and started kneading at the inside of Jon’s wrist.

“This’ll help?”

“Weavin’ works the wrists plenty, and there wasn’t much else to do between villages when the day’s hunt was done.”

“I thought you were good at making maps? Or learning them, or... something.” Admittedly the motion was helping; Jon felt much more relaxed, at least.

“What, I can’t be good at two things that aren’t fighting?”

“No. I just... peoples’ pastimes _are_ fighting, in the south. Hunting, jousting, things like that.”

“Explains why lords need so many damned servants.”

Jon laughed and pulled his hand back to test it. “Thanks. That does feel better.”

“Ye’re welcome. Did ye want me to-?”

Oh. _Oh_. Jon went from languid to rigid in a second, neck twinging painfully as he did. And that was apart from the roiling nerves in his midsection, which he hadn’t thought to have before but was quickly realizing were more than justified given the intimacy of Tormund’s suggestion. Jon’s voice came out too low, “Would you?”

Tormund scooted back from the fire and spread his legs, patted the expanse of fur between them. Jon crawled into the space, passing a bit nearer to the fire than he’d have liked, and took a cross-legged seat.

“You need to relax,” Tormund said.

Jon could barely suppress a shiver at the closeness of his voice. He stretched his own legs out, heels just brushing the warm stones at the edge of the firepit, and realized he didn’t know where to put his hands. Tormund was so close.

“Just get comfortable.”

“I’m trying.”

“Me bones won’t snap if you brace yourself on my legs. Promise.”

Jon did as he suggested even though it made Jon’s stomach twist even worse. There was still a thick layer of fur between his hands and Tormund’s thighs, as the cold demanded, but that didn’t lessen the shock of the touch. _You’ve bathed together. You wake up in the crook of his arm more mornings than not, for gods’ sakes_ , Jon reminded himself. But this was different.

Tormund had to move aside Jon’s own layers of clothing to find the tense spots, and this time the shock of cold air contrasting with the warmth of Tormund’s hands did make Jon shiver. “Never known a wolf to be so cold.” He applied pressure. “Gods, you’re tense.”

“Blame the children. Never thought I’d have to deal with them.” It took much greater effort than Jon would have imagined possible to ignore the _more more more_ surging through him at every brush of Tormund’s fingers and try to relax instead.

“Are they really so bad?”

“No. That’s the thing. Children from Westeros’d be ten times worse. Self-righteous and arrogant, even when they’re eager to learn.” Jon remembered Bran’s frequent demands for scary stories in their youths, Theon’s insistence that they end their lessons as quick as they could to make it to the practice yard sooner. Thought of peace at Winterfell and the quiet of the castle walls at night. “Suppose it’s possible I would have had children with Danerys. Even though she knew...” he shook his head slightly.

“Stop wriggling.”

“You aren’t exactly a stable armrest.”

“And you’re cold as ice, but ye don’t hear me complaining.”

Jon got so still at that Tormund pulled his hands back. “Am I? Freezing.”

“Didn’t say you were. Just cold. Sit too far from the fire.”

“I don’t know if that’s it,” Jon said, and suddenly his position wasn’t stable at all and he was sliding out of Tormund’s reach, pulling his knees to his chest in spite of himself. But who could he be weak around, if not Tormund? “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault she brought you back.”

“Is it bad that sometimes I wish she didn’t?”

Tormund was quiet for a second too long, long enough Jon worried he wouldn’t say anything, or worse, would agree with him. But then he said, “I don’t know. But I’m glad she did.” And Jon looked up to find honesty etched clear on his features.

“When I’m with you I can almost forget I was dead.”

“Sounds like a good thing.”

“It is.”

Tormund’s gaze was heartbreakingly earnest. “Then why do you feel guilty about it?”

Jon looked away. “I don’t.”

“You do. I can hear it. Can see it in your face, little wolf. I know you well enough for that.”

“I don’t want you to feel like you need to help me.”

“Who said I did?”

“No one. I just- sometimes it feels that way. Like maybe you’re making decisions, staying with me, even not going north, because you want to keep an eye on me.”

Tormund touched his shoulder, so light Jon had to look at him. “I’m not doing it for you, little wolf. Or- I am, but I’m doing it for me. For us both. Because I care about you. I don’t want to lose you.”

Jon felt like he was going to cry. It had been so long since he’d cried. “I thought you’d want to go back north?”

“Maybe. But not without you.”

Jon felt the tears loose as that hit him. Tormund felt the same way. That wherever Jon was was where he wanted to be. That they were too close to risk losing that. “What if you want to go back?”

“Don’t know I will. You’re here, Ritte and Dastin are here. Most everyone I know still alive is in this village.”

Jon felt so stupid for it, for crying like this. Because he was almost sobbing, and he should have known, shouldn’t have thought-

“Shh.” Tormund’s arm came around him, and Jon curled into his chest. “I’m not going anywhere, Jon. I won’t leave you.”

Jon couldn’t say anything. He was crying too hard. For all of them. For Sansa and Rickon and Robb and Bran and Arya. Catelyn and Ned, and the parents he never knew. Mance and Ygritte and thousands more dead Free Folk. The countless men of the Night’s Watch he’d known and lost, himself among them.

Because Jon Snow hadn’t made it back from the Wall, not really. The man who’d come back was Jon Stark, or Jon Targaryen, or all three of them, or none of them. He wasn’t the same, would never be the same. He knew there was some part that must be. The part that was living and breathing now, the one that had chosen to be free and go by no other name but Jon. But gods, how much he had lost. And for what?

For this. For three siblings alive. For him alive. Him and Tormund.

“I won’t leave you, little wolf. I won’t leave you, Jon.” That, over and over again, promised in the arms wrapped around him and the steady heartbeat near his ear, was what finally got him to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

“What time is it?”

“Late enough.”

Jon groaned. “I have to get up.”

“Why? The little shits won’t forget it all in a day.”

“Maybe not. But if I give them a day off this early half of them won’t come back tomorrow.”

“Are all wolves this stubborn?”

“Ask Ghost.” Jon opened his eyes, finally, to find the fire burning low and last night’s dishes still on the floor. “The fire...”

“A promise is a promise,” Tormund said, then stood and started doing everything himself before Jon had a chance to help him.

Jon sighed and reached for the waterskin. His arm was halfway to it when an overwhelming urge to piss hit him. “How much did I bloody drink?”

“Hardly any. Just slept too long.” His words sounded smugger over the sound of Jon pissing.

When they’d both had something to eat and were piled in furs again, Jon hesitated. “Tormund. Last night-” Jon cut off, uncertain.

“What about it?” Loads of help he was offering.

Then again. Jon had one thing he knew he wanted to say. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to-”

“Yes, I do. I needed to hear it.”

“Thought you already knew.”

“Still nice to hear it.”

Tormund studied him for a long moment, then shook his head slightly and made for the door. “Don’t mention it. Summer’s still a long way off.”

Before Jon could ask what that meant, he was gone.

As expected, the children got more restless by the day, and were it not for the thick coating of ice that had formed outside, Jon would have started insisting they use the snow to practice just so they’d have more room to expend their energy.

Tormund didn’t say anything else about the night before, and for that Jon couldn’t tell if he was relieved or frustrated. It was easy enough to relax into the companionship they’d built over the past months; even so, Jon was reminded of how good that extra closeness had felt, the skin on skin, every time the two of them brushed hands.

Winter set in brutally and for good, snowing them in for days at a stretch and threatening worse. Jon had only got the children through the alphabet when the first bad snow came. He was so surprised they showed up on the first day warm enough he called Ghost into the keep as positive reinforcement.

Jon had never minded spending time with other children who weren’t cold to him- most notably Arya- but he was surprised he got along with them now. The trick, he learned, was not to underestimate them; half the time they could outdo Irik in word pronunciation, and they’d been speaking common for many fewer years than he had. Despite the untranslatability between common and the Old Tongue in writing, Jon picked up plenty of words and symbols. If he had any questions he brought them to Tormund over dinner.

Tormund, for his part, was improving spectacularly in reading common. He'd insisted Jon start with map words. After the first decent snow had Tormund naming every town from theirs to the Neck and even being able to write a few, they had to switch to books- and the much less challenging ‘what does this mean’- for him to learn anything at all.

There hadn’t been many council meetings since the one held just after the supplies were brought from Winterfell, so they hadn’t decided on a name for the village yet. Plenty were suggesting they name the place after Mance; the snows put enough of a damper on gossip that Jon had no idea whether it was catching on. When a month of hard weather finally let up, Tormund insisted he attend the meeting to tell everyone how the children were getting along.

“They all recognize our letters, and some of them can even write a whole sentence. I think I’d be able to take on helping more adults. Irik said he would be more than happy to teach, as well. He doesn’t know as much as me, but he’s good enough to get people started.”

“Idiot shoulda come and told us himself,” Gorwynd piped up from her seat at the end of the table nearest the door. “Tell him that’s fine, if we can get them to come out. Will ye need the keep for us, too?”

“I could take the children into one of the other rooms. I promised they’d get to start using paper soon, and it’d be easier to show them in a smaller space.”

Baegir nodded. “That’s fine, then. What are we going to do about trade?”

“Trade with who? Snow’s’re past my arse,” Hranulas said indignantly.

“They won’t be forever,” Bjakmar countered. “He’s right. We need to decide what to do if some southern trader comes knocking.”

More people looked at Jon than he really would have liked. He sighed. “The Queen in the North’s protecting us, and no one has any reason to believe she’ll stop once we can make a proper agreement come summer. I’d imagine anyone willing to come this far would be more than happy to trade with us, so long as we have something to offer.”

“Aye. And that’d be?” Gorwynd asked.

Jon glanced between Baegir and Hranulas. “Food. No one south of the Wall can preserve it as well as you can. I was told your people hadn’t starved in years, at least not from cold.”

“We haven’t,” Hranulas said. “S’the damn wights making certain we starved. Couldn’t very well hunt the same woods they were usin’ for camp.”

“Exactly. That makes us a valuable place to trade with, because this is the only town with so much skill in keeping food.”

Gorwynd raised her eyebrows. “Ye mean to tell me they don’t know how to cure things in the south?”

“The far south? Probably not. Here they can do it, but not so well as you. Plenty of things they don’t even know how- haven't found how to do it without the food going bad.”

“If ye can pickle one thing, ye can do ‘em all,” Hranulas insisted. “But if the southerners want to trade with us, let ‘em. We’re going to need glass soon, or a whole lot o’ sand and someone knows how to make it. Clay’d do just as well, if we can find some not frozen.”

“Bollocks,” Bjakmar said. “Got no one here who can make glass. And there’s no way all the clay in a thousand miles o’ here ain’t frozen solid.”

There had been more than enough food containers in their first wagonload of things from Winterfell, and Jon knew jars were valuable enough to be treated well and reused. But reusing everything they had wasn’t going to make enough to send south. “Mightn’t we try for clay? It's much easier to make, isn’t it?”

“Anyone with half a brain can make somethin’ outa clay. I could make a decent jar. But that doesn’t solve the problem of the clay bein’ frozen,” Baegir insisted.

“I can send word to the queen. She’ll have some type of map or someone who knows where the nearest clay is to here. On a warm enough day, if it’s near running water, maybe...” Jon had no idea whether either of those things would matter. Still worth the attempt.

“Normally we’d go lookin’ ourselves,” Gorwynd insisted. “Askin’ queens for things isn’t our way.”

“It is ‘til the snows let up,” Hranulas said. “Send the message, Jon. Got plenty other things to discuss than a trader might not even show for months. Is everyone settled in, or is that lad still goin’ on about more rooms?”

“It’s too cold to build anything,” Baegir said. “Hope the idiot doesn’t think he can have his extra room and keep his fingers.”

The rest of the meeting required mercifully little input from Jon, and at the end they threw around a few ideas for a name before deciding that Mance Town was shit and they’d need to do better than that if they wanted the damned place to honor him.

They weren’t staring at him- yet- but Jon figured it was only a matter of time unless he suggested something himself. “Manceworth."

“Manceworth?” Gorwynd repeated slowly.

“The word ‘worth’ is part of names used in the south. And some towns, if I’m not mistaken. Says something about us. Says something about him.”

“Trying to live up to his sacrifice,” Bjakmar said quietly. Apart from Tormund, he was the only man living who’d really known Mance.

“I think it’s good. But we should ask others before we decide,” Hranulas said.

“Aye. Should all have a say. Maybe all of us should meet, if the snows aren’t too bad tonight,” Gorwynd said. “Can ye spread the word?”

“If we can’t, we’ll just have to call them all up tomorrow. May as well meet then.” Tormund stood. “Anything else?”

“No. Until tomorrow, then.” Hranulas got up, and soon enough they were all making their way to the door, piling on extra furs for their respective walks home.

Jon could tell something was wrong by the way Tormund carried himself. His expression remained neutral, but his stance was cautious. He looked on edge, predatory, even. Jon knew better than to bring it up before they made it to the safety of their hut.

He'd expected Tormund to be out with it the second their door was fastened. But he stayed quiet, starting to strip off extra layers and going to sit and stare into the fire.

Once Jon’s boots were set up to dry, he sat next to Tormund. “What is it?”

Tormund wouldn’t look at him. Just kept staring into the flames.

“Tormund?”

His head jerked towards Jon, face blazing with intensity. “Why’d you say that?”

“What?” But Jon knew.

“Manceworth? Gods, Jon.” Tormund’s voice broke on his name.

Jon felt stung. And guilty. “I didn’t mean to-”

“No,” Tormund said, gripping his shoulders. “Just tell me why.” And Jon realized there was hurt in his expression, yes, but not the kind Jon had been expecting. From Jon he only wanted truth.

“He was the best of both of us. He was the best of both of us and we let him die.”

“Mance knew he was dead the second he left the Wall,” Tormund said, all the fight going out of him. He stared into the flames again, hands no longer digging into Jon’s arms. “He died for more of us to live than this.”

“I know. But we’re still alive.”

Tormund sat with that for a moment. The first time Jon was reminding him, instead of the other way around. “What if we don’t go north?”

“Some will.”

“But what if we don’t?” Tormund repeated, locking eyes with him.

“We can keep the old ways alive even if we don’t go back north.”

“How?”

“We’re the only people alive north of the Long Lake. Sansa said she might send men back to the Wall, when the snows clear, but even if she did, we’re all that’s here. She won’t deny us freedom. I don’t know what it’ll be like, staying, but I know that much. We’ll still have the council meetings. We’ll have all the land between here and Queenscrown.”

“Free Folk don’t own land, Jon.”

“No one said we couldn’t share it.”

“But if it’s not ours, it’ll be hers. Her and the next hundred queens in the north. That’s not the same as being free.” Jon hadn’t known heartbreak could look like that. So clear as to leave no doubt in his mind what it was.

“So go north.”

“What if they won’t?” Tormund sounded desperately sad.

Jon shook his head. “Convince them. If whatever Sansa does isn’t enough. If you don’t feel free enough then. Convince them to go with you.”

“S’not my choice to make, little wolf.”

For a second there was only the fire. Then, “I’ll go with you.”

“I know.”

There was nothing he could say, after that. Nothing that’d really comfort Tormund. How could there be, when everything he’d known was gone? “Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t.”

For the first time in months Jon went to bed alone.


	10. Chapter 10

When he got up next morning Tormund wasn’t even in the room. He’d come to bed eventually, sliding in close to Jon only to turn his back to him. Jon knew better than to think Tormund hadn’t known he was awake. But he also knew what it was not to want comfort, or to allow it to oneself only in small measures, and if that’s what Tormund needed he wasn’t going to get in his way.

Jon was halfway through breakfast when Tormund came in, brushing snow from his shoulders, bird swinging from his fist. “Oh.”

“I’m not-” Jon started.

“No, it’s alright. Save it for dinner.” Tormund went back to the door and stuck the bird into the snow. “Should’ve known ye’d need to be up. Have to teach us, too, now.”

“You can write almost as well as me.”

“Horseshit.”

“Thank you. For the bird.”

“Who said I was sharin’?” Tormund fired back. A second later he was seated by the fire finishing Jon’s breakfast.

Jon smiled. “Was Ghost out?”

“How the hell should I know? Still half dark when I was up, and there’s no way I woulda seen him in the snow.”

"I think if he knew you were out he’d come say hello.”

“Not my wolf.”

“Not mine, either. Just a friend,” Jon said.

“Aye. You and me and Ghost. Best of fucking friends.”

“Tormund.”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Tormund hesitated. “Ye were going to.”

“Aye. But I hadn’t yet.”

Tormund threw down the empty bowl and turned to him. “What d’you want me to say, Jon?”

“Nothing. I don’t want you to say anything. I just want- is there anything I can do?”

Tormund shook his head. “You’re not…”

“Your wife?”

“S’not what I meant.”

Jon shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter what I am, either. Still here.”

Tormund kissed him. Then, “Gods, Jon, I-”

“No.” Jon grabbed his wrist, held his eyes. “It’s fine.” It had barely been anything, just a moment, a beginning, maybe, and even though he was dizzy at the thought of it Jon knew that wasn’t what either of them needed just then. “I don’t mind. Don’t mind the comparison, either.”

Tormund shook his head, but didn’t pull away. “Isn’t right. Wife, your word for it, or husband, they don’t-”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I know you didn’t. I don’t know a better word either.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“I shouldn’t have-”

“Tormund.” He met Jon’s eyes again. “It’s really alright.”

Tormund sucked in a breath and stood. “Wasn’t meant to be like that, little wolf.” And before Jon could say anything he was out the door.

Jon was left staring, hand empty; then he came back to himself, started gathering furs and pulling them on. Tormund couldn’t have gone far.

He hadn’t. He was at the edge of the patch of trees, the one that held the stream. “Water’s frozen today. Passed it this morning.”

“We don’t have to only be friends.”

“Not like this, Jon.”

“I know. But you didn’t- you sounded bitter. When you said we were friends, a minute ago.”

Tormund laughed. “Did I? Forget it. Forget it all. Call it Manceworth. Or Mance Town. Or whatever they can come up with.”

“You’re allowed to need me.”

Tormund looked at him like Jon couldn’t possibly know what he was saying.

“We don’t have to only be friends,” he said again.

Tormund turned back to the trees. “You haven’t been allowed to need anyone, little wolf.”

“I’m stronger than you think. I can-”

“I know you’re strong. Isn’t about being strong. What if I want to go north?”

“I told you. I’ll go with you.”

“What if that isn’t what you want?”

“This is enough.” When Tormund looked about to bolt, Jon grabbed his arm. “I mean it. I just want to be with you. I don’t care how. Don’t care where.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

“I know. But it’s alright. And I-” Jon inhaled. “I want it. Don’t think I don’t want it. I do. But we have time.”

Tormund’s expression went from disappointed to hesitant to steady. “You don’t have a word for it.”

“’Course we do. Love, you idiot,” Jon said, and pulled him into a hug.

“Hold on,” Tormund said. When Jon made to pull away, he added, “No, not that,” and yanked him back in. “I want to be clear. We aren’t fucking, but you’re open to it?”

Jon laughed. “Right. Yes. I don’t care. I mean I do care, and I think I’ll want to, I just- I don’t think I’d mind? If we never did.”

“Neither would I. I didn’t want to-”

“You couldn’t. Scare me away, I mean. Not after everything we’ve been through together. Even if I wasn’t open to it. I’d still want to sleep next to you every night.”

“You’re stealing my argument.”

“Aye. Sure it won’t be the last time.”

“Sure it won’t,” Tormund agreed, and moved back. “Where does that leave us?”

“I don’t know. Figure this winter’ll last at least a few years.”

“Maybe.” Tormund was searching his face.

“You think too much,” Jon said, and kissed him.

It was a good kiss. Warm and deep and surprising, because Jon hadn’t been sure he was going to do it until he had. When Tormund pulled back to search his face again Jon laughed. “Still here, Giantsbane.”

“We’re the only ones alive who remember them.”

Jon shrugged. “You’ve got little wolf. What in the seven hells am I supposed to call you?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Idiot, you seem to like that one. Moron. Dumb shite’s not bad-”

“Just because we’re south doesn’t mean you have to forget.”

Tormund held his face. “Stop fucking doing that.”

“What?”

“Reading my mind. You aren’t allowed to do it anymore.”

“Not allowed?” Jon said. “I’m free. Short of a violent rampage, I’m allowed to do whatever I want.”

Tormund grinned. “You mean it?”

“Hey!” And then Jon kissed him again, to prove the point. Much though Jon would have liked to stand there kissing his flaming-haired idiot, they did both have things to do. “What time is it?”

“Who cares? You’re free.”

“Maybe, but I still have to show up at the keep before they decide I’ve given up on the lot of them and run off.”

“They won’t. Make Irik do it.”

“First off, yes, they will. Second, Irik is supposed to be teaching the older lot, all the grown ones who want to learn first, and if he’s doing that he can’t very well mind the fifteen children I’m supposed to be keeping out of trouble.”

“The lessons are good for that,” Tormund said. “But so what? One day won’t kill them.”

“If I promise we can make a first attempt at fucking each other senseless tonight will you let me do the one thing I’m responsible for in this place?”

“I thought we were clear on the point that fucking didn’t need to be part of it.”

“It doesn’t. I mean, it should, eventually, ideally, but mostly I just said that because if I don’t leave now twelve or more parents might bash down our door demanding to know how kissing you is more important than keeping their children from setting things on fire.”

“Nothing’d catch in this cold,” Tormund said.

“Nothing would catch _outdoors_ ,” Jon countered. When Tormund raised his eyebrows, “I don’t know who started it, but they very nearly set the keep on fire a few days ago. Couldn’t salvage the table that caught.”

Tormund smirked. “Bet it was warm, though.”

“How are you alive?”

“I’m stubborn. Thought you knew that.”

“Are you talking about you or the fact that I’d have to be stubborn to come back from the dead?”

“Ye can’t just take my jokes like that. It isn’t right, Jon-”

Jon managed to steer their bickering towards the keep, at which point Tormund reluctantly allowed him to go inside.

“You’re late,” three of the children accused at once.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Jon said. At their skeptical looks, “Giantsbane wouldn’t shut up.”

The whole lot of them groaned in understanding.

Jon had no idea how the other lesson went until afterwards, when he reconvened with Irik. “It went alright. Some of the same problems you had the first time around, but I’m lucky enough to have helped you solve them. Going to need a bit more from you before I can get through a book, but, well.” Irik shrugged.

“I never asked- how are you so good at this?”

“You call them the Old Tongues, all our languages, since they all come from the one?”

“Aye.”

“I know ‘em all.”

Jon squawked. Not his finest moment, he’d admit, but well justified given the circumstances. “Why didn’t you-”

“Tell you? Never asked. And it didn’t seem especially important when most of the wee ones only know the one of our languages.”

“I don’t even know _one_. Gods.”

“I’d say ye’ve got a decent hold of it. Can hold a conversation with a four-year-old, at least.”

Jon was still too impressed to be offended- and why would he be, he didn’t know shit compared to Irik, the thought of Jon being able to hold a conversation at all was a compliment. “You should go to the Citadel.”

“What?”

“When the winter’s over. You should visit them, teach them. They should know. Someone should know. Have a record of your people. Know how they spoke, how they wrote, how they lived.”

“Would they want to hear it?”

“They didn’t want to hear the wights were back. Bet they’re glad of our efforts now. It’s important, Irik. Your people.”

“Our people.”

“Right,” Jon laughed. “Our people. The Free Folk. Someone should know about them, after all they did to keep everyone alive.”

“From what I’ve heard of maesters, they aren’t the listenin’ type, but I’ll consider it.”

“Oldtown is far. We could write the Citadel, see if they’d send someone, maybe… nowhere in the Gift’s had a maester for centuries, if they ever had one.”

“Wouldn’t have made it this far if we couldn’t fix up a wound,” Irik pointed out.

“I know you wouldn’t. Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t benefit us having a maester.”

Irik clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Now ye’ve got it.”

“What?”

“You’re one of us, Jon. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t.”

Irik nodded and went to go sup wherever he usually supped; Jon typically joined whatever fire was warmest and nearest outside, if there was one, or headed back to his and Tormund’s hut. He found Gorwynd making wild hand gestures as she spoke to a large group, half of whom were eating and another quarter of whom were muttering about names. “Least we could do for him. He died for us.”

“No one’s disputin’ that fact. It just may not be the best idea to start a Free Folk town in the north usin’ the name of a deserted crow.”

“Why not? Be a sign of respect, far as I’m concerned. Show we aren’t so different, even if we won’t bend the knee. Remind the southerners they don’t owe shite to their lords.”

“I’ve had enough of war, haven’t you? Let us survive the winter. Let the Free Folk live to see the north again. They’ve let thousands die. Whatever we use of theirs now, to come back- it’s our due.”

“Aye. How many died because the Watch ignored us?”

“Least as many as died because the lords ignored the Wall.” That one got a few snorts. It was too truthful for Jon to find humor in it.

Someone noticed him anyway. “What do ye think?”

“I think you’re all right. Best thing’s to wait out the winter, and as soon as some of us are strong enough to go back north, we can. If that’s what we want. But until then… I think we could all use a little peace.” Murmurs of assent followed his statement.

“Aye, peace is lovely, but that don’t solve the problem of havin’ no town name to give the first southern trader braves the snow.”

That got them going again. Jon took some food from the shared pile near the fire and went to sit, glad to have a chance to observe. If their luck held there’d be a meeting before nightfall, and it wouldn’t snow them shut in the keep arguing all night.

“Fuckin’ meetin’s. Didn’t miss the shouting,” Bjakmar said, taking a seat beside Jon.

Jon shook his head. “I can’t speak for shouting, but I know I missed this- people having a hand in their own fate. Only ever saw it in the Watch, and I’m sure you know that wasn’t the best example.”

Bjakmar huffed a laugh. “I been watching this my whole life. If ye think it gets easier-”

“Easier, no. But it’s still better than having a lord, isn’t it?”

“I’ll drink to that.”


	11. Chapter 11

The next time he saw Tormund was in the keep, where council members and townsfolk alike huddled in a loose semicircle near the fire. At the very least, it seemed they were willing to put off the final decision about going back north until summer was over and Sansa delivered her terms. But the man at lunch had been right: they needed a name.

They could only exchange smirks before Irik approached the hearth, book in one hand and handwritten list in the other. “Can I speak?”

The rabble quieted, shifted to ‘ayes’ of consent.

“I've been round the north a few times, and I know we name most towns for the land up there. But we can’t very well learn the land in these snows, and whoever lives here after us should remember we owe our lives to Mance.” General agreement. “I’ve got a list of our towns here, and some in the south here. I’m passin’ this around, seeing as all of ye can all read it. If we can’t decide that way I’ll read some names from this southern book. Aye?”

Agreement again. Irik handed the page to the nearest man; Jon was close enough to see it had a list written in Free Folk symbols, though he didn’t recognize any of them.

Manceworth had more support than Jon expected, though plenty thought it too southern. Mancepont was another, since their settlement was a sort of bridge between the north and south. But neither of those sounded enough like the Old Tongue, and given Mance himself was from the south, they didn’t really fit.

Then Hranulas suggested Abermance- it sounded southern enough, but wasn’t, really, and it came from a word that meant a splitting channel. “Not as good as a bridge, maybe, but th’idea’s there.”

Their vote was more haphazard than the Watch’s; Gorwynd shouted for all in favor, and the ayes were louder.

The sun was just setting when they left. “Abermance,” Tormund said. “I don’t know. Manceworth seemed to get the meanin’ across.”

“Why didn’t you suggest one? You’ve got to know as many place names as Irik.”

“Aye, but not as many languages. May not know what they all mean, eh?”

Jon shook his head. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“Now that’s somethin’ I haven’t heard before.”

They went inside and cooked their bird, and everything was the same except the way Tormund looked at him, because there was a promise in it now that hadn’t been there yesterday.

“Thinkin’ too hard again?”

Jon smiled. “Always.”

“What about this time?”

“Thinkin’ about you.”

Tormund huffed a laugh. “Plenty better things to think about, little wolf.”

“Nah. Think this one’s alright.”

After a moment too long of staring Tormund turned to him and said, “Ah, for gods’ sake-” and pulled him into a kiss. “Better?”

“Aye.” Jon hesitated.

“What?”

“It’s stupid.”

“I know ye are already. Won’t be a surprise when you say whatever it is you need to say.”

“I think we’re still a long way off from fucking, but I think it’d be nice to sleep with our shirts off. So we know- so we remember we’re both alive.”

“That’s not stupid at all, little wolf.” And Tormund pulled off his last layer of furs, taking his shirt with it. He tugged the hem of Jon’s shirt and Jon stuck his arms over his head.

“Haven’t needed help since the last time I got stabbed.”

“Don’t,” Tormund said. Then they went to their heaping pile of furs at the opposite side of the fire- which Jon was starting to think of as more nest than bed- and wriggled under them. Soon as they were comfortable Tormund pulled him close. “We should get a barrel. Smell like a wolf.”

“So do you,” Jon laughed. “I could still write Sansa for that tub, you know.”

“Wouldn’t make a bit o’ difference if she didn’t send some of that flowery shit southern lords call soap.”

“Aye, because soap’s supposed to burn.” Jon rolled his eyes.

“It is. S’how you know it’s working.”

“Haven’t seen Ghost in a few days.”

“Sure he’s got things to do. And you know he can take care of himself.”

“Doesn’t mean he has to.” And then, because he couldn’t help it, “Do you want to go north?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow. How the fuck am I supposed to know what I’ll want years from now?”

“I don’t know. I just- I could never think like this before. Today and maybe tomorrow, worry about the rest when it comes. Only times it was like that we were fighting, and even then...”

“Even then there was the battle to think about.”

“You’re worse than I am,” Jon said, considering.

“At what?”

“Reading my mind when I don’t want you to. There I was taking the blame when you do it just as often yourself.”

Tormund snorted. “Knowin’ your mind’s a gift. If I didn’t know what ye were thinkin’ I’d go mad guessing.”

“S’good you know me, then.”

Tormund hummed. Jon felt it radiate through his chest, felt them press together and apart as they breathed. Caught a few odd heartbeats, maybe imagined. Didn’t matter. Knew they were there. Both breathing. Both alive.

“D’you think they knew? Mance and Ygritte and all the rest of them?”

“No way to know. But they knew most of us wouldn’t live. Same as you and me. We were just lucky.”

Jon exhaled. “Lucky. Never thought I was lucky.”

“Neither did I, and here we are.”

“Here we are,” Jon said, liking the sound of it. He was somewhere. Alive. Not nothing, not gone, not blackness. “There’s supposed to be something after you die, isn’t there?”

Tormund’s voice was too steady. “I don’t know.”

“If there was I didn’t see it. I hope I was wrong.”

They laid there for a long time before either of them went to sleep.

Winter kept on like it had, days of holing up out of the snow followed by days of sun enough for false hope of melting. The only differences were the lack of Irik in the lesson room with Jon, the occasional reference to Abermance, and the daily trips to hunt for clay. Despite having plenty of town records, Sansa said they could turn up none on geography; no one had bothered recording anything in years, and even when they had it may not be accurate. Their stockpiling of winter crops slowed when they ran out of jars. People shifted from storing half and eating half to eating whatever was fresh. Too many animals were dying on their own, the hunters said. A bad storm was coming.

When the bad storm did come, they agreed to take shelter in the keep instead of their homes, since people were much less like to go mad among each other than alone or nearly so. They could survive there for a month if they had to, though no one had ever heard of a storm lasting that long.

“People aren’t cautious in the south,” Jon said. “They take things for granted.”

“Good way to end up dead for lack of food,” Baegir said.

“I’ve heard lack of training’s just as bad.” Bjakmar’s subject change was quick, and he grabbed a practice sword to underscore the point. “Anyone want to go up against me?”

“He’s good at that. Distracting people. Should ask him to help with the lessons,” Jon said.

Tormund furrowed his brow. “Aren’t they still learnin’ to write? Bjakmar an’ the older ones?”

“Aye. But some of the children read quicker than me, and almost all of them can make it through a page alone now even with all the strange southern words. Won’t need me at all for much longer.”

“What’ll you do, then?”

Jon shrugged. “Wait to treat with traders?”

“Thought you said the queen hadn’t seen one in weeks?”

“Last I heard. But we’ve sent a few more ravens. Bran’s willing to honor whatever terms Sansa offers us, and the Citadel is considering sending someone north when winter ends. Want to have a record of how Sansa’s ruling, I expect. First queen the north’s ever seen, and the first true ruler they’ve had in hundreds of years.”

“More interestin’ than keeping track o’ some maester’s shites.” Tormund was posted up next to him a comfortable distance from the fire. They had a good vantage point to watch Bjakmar facing off against the village’s most formidable children.

“I would imagine.”

“Given any thought to writing?”

“What, myself?” Jon laughed. “You can’t be serious. Even if I thought anyone would want an honest account of the war, I doubt I’m the best one to do it.”

“Fine. Can ye sing?”

“What in seven hells-?”

“Bit short on entertainment as of late. Worth askin’ around, isn’t it?”

Jon stared at him. “You don’t think if I could sing you’d have known that by now?”

Tormund shrugged. “You didn’t know I was good with maps ‘til it came up. Don’t think singing’s come up.”

“Well, now it has. And I can’t, so... you’re just going to keep suggesting things until one sticks, aren’t you?”

“What’d you do in my place, then?”

“I don’t know. Never been there. Don't plan on it, either, since you’re so talented the thought of you having nothing to do is near impossible.”

Tormund snorted. “Right. Ye’ll keep mindin’ the house and leave the rest to me, then. S’long as you’re in charge of all the building.”

“Building? What building?”

Tormund shrugged. “Going to need space eventually, aren’t we? Or are ye happy with one room?”

“I’ve scarcely been happier in my life,” Jon said, thinking the qualification made it an understatement and feeling immensely guilty for it.

“Don’t do that.”

Jon started. “What?”

“You’re broodin’ again. Won’t bring back the dead.”

Jon choked out a laugh and went to find a quiet corner to brood in.

Tormund followed him.

“I thought you didn’t like brooding.”

“Don’t.”

Grateful he was there and doubtful it’d help, “Won’t having you here make it worse?”

“The guilt? Don’t know. Maybe. Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be here. I can go, if you want. But s’a stupid reason.”

Jon looked at him for a long moment from his spot already curled on the floor, then held an arm out.

Tormund settled next to him and pulled Jon close, making up for their distance from the fire with a layer of fur and body heat. At first each second Jon spent there prickled at him, a second he felt good and someone else was dead. He knew he couldn’t undo those deaths. He knew it. There was no way to bring Rickon back, no way to raise Robb from the dead. No way of knowing why he was alive and they weren’t. There was no sense to it he could see, and there likely never would be. He’d known that truth of life since he was young and motherless, since he was given a bedroom far from his siblings’ and reminded over and over of the deference he must show them in public.

But the warmth reminded him he was alive. Truly alive, and doing nothing with it if he wasn’t looking for this, safety or comfort or purpose or whatever it is everyone was supposed to have died for. Holding Tormund, and letting himself be held, felt good. Felt right like nothing else had for too many years. It was much harder to believe his breaths were robbing his brothers of theirs when Jon being alive felt so right in that moment.

“Ye’re finally relaxin’ a little,” Tormund said lowly.

“M’trying to.”

“Alright?”

“I think so.”

Tormund huffed a laugh. “I meant are ye alright here, with me?”

Jon realized what he meant- that Jon was clinging to Tormund in full view of the entire village- and started to laugh. He muffled the hysterical sounds in their furs. “I don’t care,” Jon said when he caught his breath. Showing weakness in front of everyone and defying the laws of the blasted seven while he was at it. “I don’t care, Tormund. I don’t care.”

“Means you’re free.”

Jon felt warmed all over at that. “Yes. I guess it does.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo I am writing chapter 20 right now so worry not more consistent posting is ahead

When the snow finally cleared enough to see the road, a trader came.

He was an old man, one who’d seen enough winters to have braved the trip alone. He’d even met one or two of the Free Folk back at Winterfell, brought a few messages from them. “They don’t trust the ravens yet,” the man explained.

Jon shrugged. “Can’t blame them. Haven’t had them long. I’m Jon.”

“Nice to meet you, Jon. Name’s Pyne.”

“Are you from the north?”

Pyne waved his hand. “M’from all over. Scarcely remember after all these years. The queen told me to give you this.” It was a sheaf of pages carefully wrapped and tied with leather.

She could have sent letters by raven. This was something else. Something more important. Arya. “Thank you,” Jon said. He felt tears well up and fought them, knowing they would freeze on his face. “You can stay with us, if you like. And we’ve got stables, behind the keep. Make sure your horse is taken care of.”

“Thank you. Probably take you up on it. Tent’s not like to do much in this weather. Though I’d be remiss not to ask- who's the other part of your ‘us’?”

Jon laughed. “Oh. I stay with Tormund. You’ll see him around. Ginger. Quite a beard.”

“You’ve got a fair few huts built. Much faster than the Westerosi would’ve done.”

“Aye. We’re sharing for now, and we used more of the old ways than new. Not exactly time for architecture.”

Pyne snorted. “Right. If we’re bein’ honest I thought you’d be sleeping in the keep, but the few I’ve seen try it start to drive each other mad before long.”

“Have many tried it? We only sleep there during bad storms.”

Pyne shrugged. “Just a few, and years ago. None this winter. Many more buildin’s than there are men, now.”

Jon let the truth of that fade a second before he spoke again. “People gather to eat in the keep, when they don’t want to be alone or can’t be bothered to make a whole meal. Good place to get warm.”

“S’long as my horse is safe for the night. Left side or right?”

“Left.” Jon showed him around to the stables, made sure his horse was settled, and followed him into the keep. “I can leave you be. Just have nothing better to do.”

“Well-prepared for the winter, then?”

“Got enough food to last a while and plenty of furs. And I help the children read, but they don’t need me for more than an hour or two these days. Not much else to do but chopping wood, and I’m afraid we’ve got plenty at the moment.”

Pyne nodded. “Much the same everywhere else half as far north. Nothing better to make a country literate than a nice long winter. Now, you said somethin’ about food?”

While he was in the keep Pyne distributed the rest of the messages from Winterfell; Jon held his own letters close, and waited until Pyne was well-settled to nip home and read them.

Arya was doing fantastically. They’d made landfall sooner than expected- on an unfriendly island, much to their collective chagrin- and had oars in the water for days afterward. The burst of speed got them to a continent before they had to subsist on fish alone, and after that the Guard Princess of Winterfell- a title Arya accepted in the interest of hastening diplomacy- made short work of securing their status as guests from a foreign land rather than invaders looking to conquer.

At some point Tormund came in and sat near the fire; Jon had all the letters spread out on the table and didn’t look up from them. When he’d got through the last one, he glanced up to find Tormund watching him. “Letters from your sister?”

“Arya,” Jon said, glancing back down at them. “She’s made landfall on something other than a hostile island. They’re planning a trip inland to get as much information as they can before coming back. No telling how many stories she’ll come back with.”

“She know the language yet?”

Jon smiled. “Enough of the first one by now, I’m sure. Hasn’t crossed any borders yet. Or at least when she’d sent this she hadn’t.” Jon put a hand on the last letter, the messiest one. No need to hurry when you were sitting on a ship with nothing better to do than take your time on a letter. Getting by in an altogether unknown place was a different matter. “You’re going to laugh.”

“Aye, I’m sure I will. But what about, this time?”

Jon looked up at him. “They govern themselves more like the Free Folk than the Westerosi.”

Tormund let loose a guffaw. “Been sayin’ it for a thousand years. ‘Bout time someone agreed with us.”

“The east agrees with you. Plenty of places in Essos have councils to govern.”

“Maybe. But until the dragon queen they had slaves, too.”

Jon took a breath. “Left the world better than she found it. Even after everything.”

“All anyone can hope to do.” Tormund stared for a second, probably making sure Jon wasn’t going to lose his head somehow, which was fair, but he wasn’t going to. Then, “How’s the trader?”

“His name’s Pyne. He’s holed up in the keep with the rest of them, swapping stories and bartering for whatever we can spare.”

“Gettin’ closer every day, Jon. Gotta be clay somewhere around here.” Tormund had been out mapping the land himself, making minor adjustments to the maps they had and drawing one in his own shorthand that’d get down more detail than any of their existing maps. Not to mention having Free Folk symbols instead of Westerosi written on it, which took up much less space. “If Pyne speaks well enough of us maybe some brave southerner will come up to blow glass.”

Jon snorted. “Sure southern horses would love to haul sand through this weather.”

Tormund rolled his eyes. “S’if the queen wouldn’t help them.”

“You can call her Sansa, you know. In our house, at least.”

“If I start callin’ her Sansa it’s like to stick. Think her advisors’d mind even if she didn’t.”

“Probably right about that.” Jon began gathering the letters, stacking them carefully in the order they’d been written. “Would you go to the Iron Islands? To meet Arya, when she got back?”

“Would you?”

Jon sighed. “I would feel a lot better making decisions like that if you’d show interest one way or the other.”

“What’s another southern keep?”

“The islands are part of Westeros. You’d be going back into southern territory- really southern territory, that is.”

“Where your brother is king.”

“My brother is subject to a lot more people who don’t like me than the opposite.”

“Sure they’d like you better’n a Wildling.” The word sounded strange coming from him, even though Jon had heard him use it a few times before.

“No one’s called us that since the war.”

“No one we could hear. Sure they’re still callin’ us that. Take a while for Free Folk to catch on, I expect.”

“I’m sure the winter’ll be more than long enough.”

“Sure it won’t. But I like your optimism.”

The two of them joined the assembled half of the village in the keep for dinner, contributing two rabbits Tormund had caught during his mapping trip.

Pyne spotted them and came over. “I take it this is Tormund?”

“People used to call me Giantsbane.”

“They still do. I’ve heard three versions of the story and I’ve only been in town a few hours.” Pyne sat down next to him. “I’m Pyne. Though I’m guessin’ Jon’s told you that, since he’s invited me to your hut.”

“More people means stayin’ warm. Though I’m willing to bet he forgot to mention his direwolf?”

“Shit,” Jon said. “I’m sorry. He doesn’t even sleep inside, most nights.”

Pyne laughed. “S’long as it isn’t like to attack me, I don’t mind. Seen another one hunting from far off. Leader of a pack.”

“Nymeria. She was my sister’s, before. Told me she was still in the north.”

Pyne nodded. “Wolves are made for this. Snow above a man’s head and they still find a way to live through it. Though I guess you’d know that.”

Jon smirked. “Are you calling me a Stark?”

“Maybe. Might be callin’ you free. Back at the castle they said you claimed no other name but Jon.”

“I don’t.”

“Easier that way. Been usin’ just the one name for decades meself. No one treats ya different when you’re not tied to some house or other. Granted they don’t recognize you, at least.”

“Most of the men that’d recognize me are dead,” Jon said.

Tormund kicked his boot. “Got a whole town full of ‘em now, though. Not to mention a whole castle.”

“You’d better mean Winterfell.”

“O’ course I mean Winterfell. May be stupid, but I’m not mean. Not to you, anyway. And there’s still your brother.”

Pyne raised his eyebrows. “Are you really so hated as all that? Should I be concerned?”

Tormund shook his head. “Nah. He’s makin’ too much of it. Long as you’re not tryin’ to get us to kneel, I don't think you’ll have any problems bein’ here.”

“Do you speak for all the Free Folk, or is your ‘us’ the same as his?” Pyne nodded to Jon.

Tormund laughed. “None of us in charge here. Though I’m part of the council, and they value what I think.” He turned to Jon. “And I suppose no matter who we’re discussin’ Ghost can take care of himself.”

“Your direwolf has a name?”

Jon smiled. “Aye. Though I don’t know I’d go so far as to call him mine.”

“What about the ginger?”

Tormund snorted; Jon felt his stomach drop. How had he not realized-?

“Make it a point not to seem a threat when I’m stayin’ in someone else’s house, even if I am just an old man,” Pyne said. “Hope I haven’t offended ya. They’re an honorable lot, I’m certain, but I can’t well stay in the keep and expect the little ones not to try and trick me outa something pretty.”

Jon’s mind needed another second to get through all of it. Yes he noticed how could he not Maester Aemon knew you were free didn’t he, and this man’s near enough as old as him so of course he noticed _Tormund_. Then there was the shock of him saying anything at all, and of saying that in particular, hopes for no offense included. He’d even complimented the Free Folk before letting them know he’d still take their offer, and that on account of caution more than prejudice. Finally Jon cleared his throat. “I understand. And no, I don’t- of course you can stay. Doubt anyone has as many furs to spare as we do.” He shot a look at Tormund, half a smile, dazed. Jon would’ve expected the same response from any of the Free Folk, but a southerner?

But then, how many southerners would come this far north in this weather to trade with Wildlings? Free Folk, Jon corrected himself. You’re free. This man, at least, knows you’re free. Can’t really have expected him to give half a shit if he’d come up at all. Maybe Jon had known that in the back of his mind before asking him. He noticed the conversation had gone on without him and tried to rejoin it.

“... whole lot of ‘em. I’d like to see a little lordling listen well as our wee ones do.”

“He wouldn’t. Better luck teaching the orphans in the capital. Though I’m sure they’ve got enough else to worry about down south apart from keepin’ young ones entertained. Besides, ya need to know something of life to appreciate knowledge. I can only read a few words, but I know how useful it is. Hard to imagine a child havin’ wisdom. Though I suppose if any did it’d be these.”

“Aye. Not so different from what they’d say about us when I was a boy- if we knew winter it’d be different. All we’d known was summer.”

Jon stared off. “S’what the old woman used to call us. Who helped with the children around the castle. Old Nan, we called her. We were all her sweet summer children.”

“And now you’ve got somethin’ in common with me,” Pyne said lightly.

Jon laughed. Did the man sitting across from him know he had died? He must at least know Jon had killed a queen. Yet he called them alike. Had to see something decent in Jon, like the Free Folk did, to accept him. Jon had asked Tormund about the Iron Islands assuming neither of them would be welcome there; it hadn’t crossed his mind that it wouldn’t matter, that he wouldn’t matter one way or another. “Should we turn in?”

“May as well. Better to wait and finish the rest of my trades ‘til everyone’s sober.”


	13. Chapter 13

It only took another week for Tormund and the others with him to find clay. They got just enough back before the next storm that they’d have something to do while they waited.

Anyone could shape something once the clay was soft enough. Doing it well, and getting it hot enough to harden, were other matters entirely. They set aside as much wood as they dared spare and started a fire in the huge stone basin that had once been the keep’s kitchen fire; after that, all they could do was try it a bit different each time until they found a method that worked.

Crafting things from clay might have been more common a skill in the True North if it was easier to get a decent fire going.

“Can keep us alive just fine. This is different,” Bjakmar said.

“As hot as a dragon’s breath, I’d bet,” Jon said, staring into it. Nobody really spoke about Danerys around him, whether because they were being careful for his sake or just didn’t care to speak of her at all. He found he could do it now without feeling too much of anything, apart from the guilt he knew would never go away.

“Can maesters measure the heat?” Irik asked. He tried to sit in on anything that might improve his knowledge as the closest thing they had to a maester in Abermance. Not to mention there was little else to do while snowed in.

Jon shrugged. “I’m sure they can. Never told me how, though. Expect they might have something in the Citadel. An instrument of some kind.”

“Can’t see that bein’ a good thing outside these circumstances,” Bjakmar said. When the others stared, he elaborated. “I mean it. S’enough the southerners keep track of just how tall a man is and just how fat. Can’t imagine our lives’d be any easier just because we _knew_ it was cold enough to lose a hand.”

Jon conceded the point.

It took three days of trial and error, and most of the clay they’d brought back before the storm, to get the conditions right. Irik devised a way of testing the heat by putting a smaller bit of clay in to see how it reacted; if that’d bake, so would anything as thick, even if it took a lot longer. A handful of people emerged who were more skilled at shaping bowls and jars than the others. These promised to take up the task, whenever clay and a proper fire were handy, granted they got first pick of what they made.

“S’not gonna last forever, ye know,” Tormund said as he and Jon stared out the door of the keep. The snow was starting to go down, though it wasn’t low enough to be worth digging themselves out yet. They’d’ve checked at a window if all of them hadn’t been nailed over with wood.

“Of course not,” Jon said.

“Didn’t mean the snow. Meant the cooperation.”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t see how you can think that. Not after everything.”

“After the threat of the Long Night, you mean?”

“Yes. After that. After we survived.”

Tormund put a hand on his shoulder. “After everything belief in people’s done to hurt you, you still believe in them?”

Jon turned to him. “Wouldn’t have chosen them otherwise.”

Tormund smiled, big and bright as Jon had ever seen it. “I’m glad.”

“So am I,” Jon said. “Now come on. Before we get beaten out of the way to stop the draft.” And he shut the door on the snow, if only for a little while longer.

The following melt was a true one, it turned out, and they were back in their houses by the end of the next day. The day after that a raven came from Sansa, bearing both a letter from her and one written from Arya to Jon after Sansa had mentioned she had a means of sharing.

Jon,

I know this comes as no shock to you, but I’ve decided to stay here at least until the end of winter. It’s plenty cold, but we drifted farther south than we expected and it’s only snowed a few times. I’m sending most of my men back with half our gold’s worth in trade on their ships. They’re planning on returning as soon as they are able. After that I’ll come home, to tell you about everything in person. Until then, my remaining men and I are continuing west to gather as much knowledge as we can before the other crews return.

While I can’t deny I miss the summer snows, if you saw this place I think you’d love it as much as I did. They’ve got weather like the Neck even though it’s winter and land somewhere between the Riverlands and everything I’ve heard of Dorne. You would hate the mud. It makes me quieter than ever and slows everyone else down, so I can’t complain.

Sansa said you’re properly free now. I’m glad. If I didn’t feel so much a Stark I may join you. Guard Princess sounds stupid, but Sansa insisted I use it. It’s been useful, I’ll admit. Annoying too. About fifteen people have tried to propose to me and most I’d never met before that. I might try being free a while myself, when I return. Still always be a Stark. Don’t forget that you’re one, even if you move north.

One more thing. Tell your Wildling- I know we’re supposed to say Free Folk now but Sansa promised she wouldn’t read this and I know you’d forgive me for wanting to sound as threatening as possible, because I mean it in a good way- tell your Wildling if he hurts you I’ll rip his throat out through his belly button.

Sending all my love from across a new sea,

Arya

Jon was beaming by the middle; he didn’t stop smiling at the last few lines, either, which he guessed meant he knew Arya meant well. “Want to know what she said about you?”

Tormund was working on maps, like he almost always was when he had a free moment. “That depends.”

“She said if you hurt me she’ll rip your throat out through your belly button.”

“Aye. Sounds about right.”

“Got anything to tell her back?”

Tormund shrugged. “Would she believe me?”

“I think so. Although I don’t know that she had much of a chance to know you. Might need to meet you again.”

Tormund shook his head. “Think she knows me well enough. Enough to like me a little, at least. I can think of much worse threats than hers, little wolf.”

Jon laughed. “Of course you can.”

“S’true. No use goin’ on about things like that in times of peace, though, not when there’s no story to be told.”

Jon thought back on all the stories they’d told each other since winter started and wondered how there could be any either of them had missed. Then he remembered all the times he’d heard certain tales in the Night’s Watch, told and retold until it got hard to keep track of who’d told it first, or how, or even whose story it was. “There’s always a story. You just know I don’t want to hear it. Not one like that. And not now, anyway.” Before Tormund could reply there was a scratching at the door; Jon got up and went to let Ghost inside. “Another storm coming?”

Ghost just stared at him.

“If you were askin’ me as well, the knee hasn’t given any hints.”

Jon held eye contact with Ghost until the wolf turned and scratched at the door. “You want me outside?” He pulled the door open and peered out into the early darkness.

Ghost slipped out, disappeared against the snow. Jon listened. Waited. He was about to grab his boots and set off after Ghost when his red eyes came into view, followed by a set of amber ones. Jon let out a disbelieving laugh.

“What?” Tormund’s voice drifted from behind him. “You need me?”

“No. Ghost has a friend.” Jon stepped back to let the two direwolves through. The wolf behind Ghost looked nothing like any of his siblings’ had. “They weren’t the last. The wolves my father found that day. They weren’t the last direwolves.”

“Wouldn’t have thought they were.” Tormund looked up from his map, tracked the flecked brown wolf as it followed Ghost, if tentatively. “This one’s never seen men before. Or at least never known them.”

Jon closed the door slowly, keeping his eyes on the new wolf, whose eyes were darting between Ghost and Tormund and Jon like it wasn’t sure if it should be tracking the two men as threats or dismissing them. It must’ve been clear by that point they weren’t prey, at least. “You’re sure there’s not a storm coming?”

“I’ve been wrong before. Could be wrong this time,” Tormund said.

“Can’t see any other reason he’d bring another wolf here.”

Tormund rose slowly from his chair, then crouched down, careful not to get more than a few steps closer to the new wolf. “One good reason. She’s carryin’ pups.”

Jon laughed. “No one had seen a direwolf in living memory before Ghost’s mother came south.”

“We’ll see a few more before winter’s over, if they’ve been smart. No other way of survivin’ but to go south.”

Jon thought of the dearth of prey north of the Wall and the massive hole that still rent it, would more than likely never be repaired. “The only way they’ll live is if we keep them here for the worst of it. But she won’t let us help.”

“She will a little, maybe. If she trusts Ghost enough.”

Jon looked between the two wolves, how they stood around each other. Ghost only presenting a little protectiveness and his friend more than willing to accept it. “I think she trusts him. At least as much as he trusts us.”

“Suppose she’s got to. Either that or more direwolves die.”

“Didn’t leave you to die. We shouldn’t leave them.” Jon had caught the eye of the new wolf and was lowering himself into a crouch. Staying away like Tormund had, but also trying to gain her trust, or at least to appear nonthreatening. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want you to live.”

Direwolves were smart. Ghost could understand him better than a dog ever could, but Ghost had grown up alongside him, been trained by him. If Tormund was right this wolf didn’t know what to expect from people and certainly wasn’t practiced in reading their movements. The best they could do was try to gain her trust in simple terms. Respecting her space seemed like the place to start.

The two of them had already eaten, but there was no telling when last the wolves had. Carefully, slowly, Jon backed towards the door, reached out for some of the deer meat they’d buried in the snow for their next meal. He approached with his hand outstretched, staying a good five feet back and bowing his head when he stopped.

The wolf must have taken this as the offering it was; she darted forward, took the meat, and skittered back again, looking between Jon and Tormund the whole way. “She’s smart,” Jon said.

“Aye. She’s alive.”

Jon sighed. “Should we get ready for bed? I don’t want to scare her.”

“Come around the other way. And don’t watch her. Let her know we trust Ghost, and her, with our backs turned.”

Jon skirted the fire, going the way that kept him farther from the direwolves. He set Arya’s letter on the narrow table they used for papers and books, then held out a hand to Tormund. He muttered something about being more limber than Jon but took the hand as he stood anyway.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to sleep,” Jon said.

“So don’t. We’ll get in bed and talk. She can learn what a chair is in the morning.”

They did what little they had to do to put the room to rights, going about it more cautiously than they would have otherwise- rinsing the dishes and setting them out to dry with as little fanfare as possible, splitting their own pile of furs to add more to Ghost’s corner, always moving on the side of the fire farther from the door. Finally Jon realized the wolves were stationed a bit close to their own bed for anyone to be comfortable. “Bed, Ghost. It’s alright. She can stay.”

Ghost held his eyes for a moment, then turned; the other wolf kept her eyes on them, but retreated to Ghost’s corner and finally laid down next to him. She lay facing the door, Ghost between her and the men.

“As much as we can expect tonight,” Tormund said, and began undressing notably more slowly than he would have otherwise.

Jon followed his example. He also tried not to look to the corner too much. Wouldn’t do anyone good if she thought it was some kind of trap.

“Outside or inside, little wolf?”

“I don’t know. Which of us seems less threatening?”

Tormund sighed. “Your feet have been fucking freezing.”

“Fine.” Jon picked the side angled nearer the fire and rolled over, wolves just out of view from his vantage.

Tormund climbed in behind him and threw an arm over Jon’s waist. “You should wear another layer.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided on an endpoint for this work but I have already written past it and hope to start posting the sequel immediately after this so don't sweat it lads
> 
> Also I have NO IDEA what Ghost's relationship is to this other wolf, I was thinking 'if he found her he'd help her even if those weren't his wife and his kids' and I like ambiguity so ship them if you like nothing's official at this moment

Tormund said the same thing in the morning. The night had passed without incident, though both the wolves were awake and watching.

“I’m fine with the clothes I have,” Jon insisted.

“Seems like you’ve caught a chill after the river.”

“That was weeks ago!” Even then it’d been colder than the last time. They’d scooped snow in from outside and warmed it by the fire to bathe since then. Jon was just glad they had found something bigger than a bucket- a barrel they had thanks to a long few days in the keep and some thorough searching. “Did you ever think maybe it was you?”

“Don’t see how I could’ve gotten warmer. Clothes are the same, and so’s the weather.”

“You’ve been outside more. Maybe you’ve got warmer to compensate.”

“Don’t know if bodies work like that, little wolf.”

“S’possible. Anything’s possible. We’ve got another direwolf.”

“More than one, soon enough.”

Jon tipped his head to sneak a glance at the corner. He’d taken Tormund at his word a few hours ago, but if he was being honest he couldn’t see much difference between Ghost and his new companion. “How can you tell?”

“Lived in the True North for years. How do you know lord whoever-the-fuck is the one in charge of such-and-such castle?”

“Not everybody knows that down south.”

“Aye, and not everybody can tell a wolf’s ‘bout to have pups beyond the Wall. I just know.”

Jon thought back on his own experience. “I only know about lords and horses. If I did something to disgrace the family I’d probably have worked in the stables the rest of my life. If not…” he yawned. “It was either castle guard or the Night’s Watch.”

“Why did you choose the Night’s Watch?”

Jon smiled. “Thought it would make me free. Took a few more years than I was expecting.”

A few moments passed. Then Tormund said, “We should give her more food.”

Jon sighed and slipped free of the furs.

He moved with less caution than the day before, though he was careful to make it clear what he was doing before he did it. This time the wolf left a little meat for Ghost, who took half of what she offered and pushed the rest back.

By the time Jon turned from the exchange, Tormund was already dressed.

“Where are you going?”

“Catch us something better than pickled beets for breakfast.”

“Don’t be long.”

“Aye,” Tormund said with an eye-roll. Jon’d need to be at the keep soon. Tormund thought it was smart- if also a little ridiculous- that Jon was teaching the children some about Westeros now that most of them could write a page-long letter without help. Wasn’t like Jon had anything else to do with himself. And he was good at it. Half the children in the village could probably read and write better than most lords could, not to mention how well they remembered things once he found a way to get them to stick.

Jon had even let them write some of his letters to Sansa. She always complimented the penmanship on those.

Ghost asked to leave before Tormund got back. Jon promised to let them both in later and couldn’t keep from smiling when Tormund brought about three times more food than they needed. “How’d you get all that so fast?”

“Cleared out some traps. Though I expect some o’ the other hunters may be havin’ words with me for it.”

“We’ll trade them some beets.”

Tormund shook his head and started skinning their rabbits.

The wolf came back to sleep in their hut that night, and the next. On the third night she didn’t wait away from the house for Ghost to enter first; she was right behind him the when he asked to come in. Jon and Tormund were getting less careful about how they went about their daily tasks, though they still kept plenty of room between themselves and the wolves.

After a week she started making noise. Whining when they took too long offering her food, barking or snapping when Ghost did something she didn’t like, growling when Jon or Tormund got too close to the corner. She and Ghost still left every morning before Jon and Tormund did, presumably to hunt. They knew for sure that’s what they were doing when two weeks in Ghost led the way back dragging half a deer carcass. Normally they’d have finished anything they found.

Normally they wouldn’t be getting half their food from Tormund’s traps.

Jon thanked Ghost for the meat and tried to get the worst of the blood out of his fur.

“Gods,” Tormund said as he came in that night.

“I know,” Jon said with a grimace. “I tried to leave the worst of it outside, but I’m not very good at skinning deer.”

Tormund appraised his work so far and shook his head. “Not a bad job. ‘Specially if this is the first thing ye’ve done bigger than a sheep.”

“I’ve never even done a sheep.”

Tormund helped him finish the job, and they stored the meat in their spot in the snow and tried to clean the worst of the mess.

“I shouldn’t have brought it inside,” Jon said apologetically as he dragged a third barrel of snow through the door to melt.

Tormund waved a hand. “Not a home without a few bloodstains.”

Jon took another look at the stones under their feet and decided their countless stains were better left uninvestigated.

Jon was trying to relay the story of the night in the least gruesome way possible- much to the dismay of the children, who were asking detailed questions and exclaiming at all mentions of blood- when Irik entered the room with a sheaf of paper clutched in his hand. “You need to see this.”

It was letters. Three of them. From three different acting lords from three parts of the north, all welcoming the Free Folk into the fold.

“Was it your sister?” Irik asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Jon said. He tore his eyes away from a page and glanced back at the children. “We can learn more tomorrow,” he said to them. Not like they were going to accomplish much while they were wringing Jon for details about how direwolves hunted. “How are the others?” Jon said, meeting Irik’s gaze as the children flooded outside.

Irik shrugged. “Fine. Not as good as this lot. I’ve got them reading aloud, so we’ve a few minutes now at least.”

Jon hesitated. “Finish with them. I’ll take these to the library and find them on the map.”

“I’ll be quick,” Irik said, and returned to the main section of the keep.

The room they called a library was nothing like the one at Winterfell or even Castle Black. They had barely enough books and papers to fill half a bookshelf. Still, they made use of what they had, and their collection was steadily growing. They already had three more maps, two of the True North made by Tormund and anyone else he could find to contribute, as well as a copy of Tormund’s map of the area translated into Free Folk script. Jon kept some of Sansa and Arya’s letters at home, but the less personal ones were stored alongside Irik’s regular accountings of people, food, and supplies. Soon they’d have a completed map of the town; it was hung in the main keep so people could make suggestions, and Irik added them when he had a chance. Their books numbered twelve in total. There were always a few gone for learning, though Irik kept close track of that as well. A few blank pages could be sent with a letter by raven, but books needed proper transport, the likes of which they hadn’t seen since Pyne departed.

By the time Irik returned, Jon had a map spread out on the largest table and each of the letters placed next to the towns they’d come from. He’d read each of them twice. “Have you been through them all already?”

“Aye,” Irik said. “Though I could only make sense of about half of it. Books you brought are shite.”

Jon smiled apologetically. “We’ll get more when we can. And I might be able to help with some of this. Maybe we got different things from reading?”

“All I got was they wanted our trade and maybe our taxes, though I’ve no idea how those work.”

Jon frowned at the letter in question. “The queen will decide all that when we make terms. And even if she did ask for taxes, I doubt we’d be sending them to any lords. We’re closer to the Wall than any of these towns.”

“And taxes are? Again, for memory’s sake?”

“People pay tribute for the protection of those more powerful than them. If we ever paid taxes they’d go to the Queen in the North and in exchange she would honor the terms of our agreement to live here, whatever they turn out to be.”

“And the lords just get to decide how much is fair?”

Jon grimaced. “Asking again won’t make you like the answer better.”

“I know,” Irik said. “Should we be worried about trade? Or protection?”

Jon sighed. “We don’t have much worth stealing, and I doubt anyone would think it worth angering the queen and losing valuable fighting men just because they didn’t like our being here. If they’re going to protest, they’ll do it with trade. Demand unreasonable amounts in exchange for things we need, probably.”

Irik cocked his head. “Suppose I see the point in that. Though I’m not sure what it is we’d need so badly- apart from not bein’ attacked, that is- that’s worth all that.”

All the things a group like theirs needed to function flooded Jon’s mind- sufficient and preferably diverse food supply, raw materials, clothes and crafted goods to fill in for the things no one there knew how to make. They had to need something.

Except they didn’t. “Seven hells,” Jon said.

“What?”

“The Free Folk are contained. They’ve always been. You had to trade amongst yourselves, yes, but what did you do when the snows were bad?”

“Survive,” Irik said simply.

“Survive,” Jon repeated. “Centuries relying on the lords to handle it all for them and the whole south’s forgotten how.”

“Seems a bit more fair a trade, taxes do, if people can’t eat without a king.”

“They can’t, really.” For the first time Jon thought about how it all worked- the governance of the Seven Kingdoms under a monarch, when the survival of mankind itself _wasn’t_ at stake- and realized how much he would have hated it. “I would’ve had to do that for the whole fucking North. Feed them and protect them from outside threats, from each other. That’s what the queen is doing now. Sansa’s making sure everyone from the Wall to the Neck is safe and fed.”

“Not everyone.”

Jon shook his head. “Not always, no. I’m sure the queen’s doing her best. But it must be even harder for Bran, in King’s Landing. He’s got six times as many people to worry about, or something like it.”

“I thought we were being given all the best farmland? That it was all up here?”

“We are. It is. Things grow other places, but the only other land so large good for farming is down by Highgarden. Not near enough to feed them all in weather like this. And they don’t know much about storing food, not when they’re used to so many winter crops.” Jon shook his head. “Being king would be awful.”

“Apart from the food. And the gold. And the castles, and the armies, and the power, all that.”

“Right.” Jon shook himself from his reverie and turned back to the map. “This is good. Means we’ve got an advantage no one in the Seven Kingdoms has had for a thousand years. We don’t need the rest of them.”

“Gods willing we never will. All we have to do is turn a few skilled men, no? To make ourselves fully independent, that is. Was it hard for you, choosin’ to be free?”

“No.”

Irik smiled. “Maybe we can stay, then.”

“Maybe,” Jon said. “Can I come to the next council meeting?”

“Aye. Sure the rest o’ them will be more than interested.” Irik gestured to the table. “What about all this?”

“We’ll talk to them about it. Isn’t my decision to make, even if my sister was the one who inspired this.” Jon turned to go. “Let me know when you meet?”

“If Tormund doesn’t first. And Jon?”

“Hm?”

“They do trust you, you know. We all do. Think your opinion’s worth a shite, too.”

“I know,” Jon said, smiling. “That’s why I don’t come to most meetings. Like to keep it that way.”


	15. Chapter 15

They had to postpone the council meeting, because the wolf was giving birth and nobody wanted another northern creature dead and if the mother and all her pups didn’t make it through alive Jon would never forgive himself.

There was only one person in town trained in midwifery. She’d been training another, but it wasn’t as if practical opportunities were likely to arise when most of the Free Folk women who wanted children had chosen to stay in Winterfell. According to Irik’s latest letter from Winterfell’s maester, the increase in fighting women in Winterfell was doing wonders for their chances of survival; he’d already performed two regular marriages and witnessed three others in the Free Folk tradition.

The wolf let the women closer than she’d let him or Tormund get; Jon wasn’t sure if it was because she trusted them more or from some instinct to keep her children alive. And of course they would live. She wasn’t alone in the winter. She was warm, had people to feed her, to make sure the pups didn’t wander off and freeze or starve.

“They’ll all be fine.” Tormund was holding his hand. For as many times as they’d kissed since that first time, as many times as they’d curled into each other, they’d never done this simple thing, this simple stupid thing that Jon knew they probably couldn’t do anywhere else without risking at least a beating, and somehow that made Jon even more nervous, like he was expecting someone to burst inside and accuse them of defying the seven. Half the northern lords didn’t even worship the seven.

They were all born alive. The only person in the room who wasn’t crying was the midwife in training. Jon couldn’t tell if it was duty or concentration or just not feeling life and death quite so heavily in that moment as the three others did. Didn’t matter. All the pups would live.

When Jon stepped outside to breathe he found all his charges crowded around the door.

“How many are there?”

Jon smiled. “Four.”

“A small litter.”

“Aye, but they’re all big.”

“Can we see them?”

“Not yet. In a few days, maybe.” And never at once, Jon thought. Wolf had only just got used to him and Tormund. Wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t allowed back in the house right away. Might need to spend the night in the hall.

“Will you bring them to the keep?”

“I can’t until they’re bigger. And we wouldn’t want to scare their mother.”

The children took the hint, scampered back to their homes and left Jon to breathe in the cold.

It was easier to breathe, somehow, when the air was so harsh. Painful, yes, but easier. Like it was cleaner. Cleansed of shit and rot and ash. Pure in a way the south would never be.

“Ye’ve scared them away,” Tormund’s voice followed the sound of the opening door. He stepped out, closed it.

“Not scared. Told them they couldn’t see the pups yet.”

“And they listened?”

Jon shrugged. “It’s cold. They’ve been waiting out here for ages, and the sun’s not even out.” Cloudy, not stormy. Better the one than the other.

“They’ll be drivin’ the old ones up the walls today.”

“Even if I hadn’t cancelled the lesson I don’t know how much more I have to teach them. Seems they teach me more than the other way around, most days.”

“Don’t matter who teaches who as long as you’re all stayin’ away from the important business.”

“The important business of surviving.”

“Aye. Though they’ll need to learn that, too, if they haven’t already.”

Jon stared across the snow, passable if inconvenient, and sighed. “We should have the meeting anyway. Tonight, while the weather’s fine.”

“Those don’t look like storm clouds.” They could have it later, Tormund meant. In a day or two. The weather was like to hold. Jon had no reason to fear it wouldn’t.

“Even so. Might still want to have it.” Jon turned to step back inside.

“Hang on,” Tormund said, catching his arm. He pulled him close. Kissed him soft. Made the twisting in Jon’s guts calm in a way seeing all five wolves safe and well hadn’t. Tormund smiled. “Been wanting to do that.”

Jon smiled back. “We need to prepare for the meeting.”

Tormund nodded. “Give them two some pickled carrots first. As payment.”

Jon snorted. “Sure they’ve plenty of their own.”

When they’d seen the midwives on their way and gathered a few maps to bring to the keep, they parted ways, Tormund to spread the word and Jon to go straight there. He stopped to get Irik so they could talk strategy on the way. Irik, it seemed, had had the same idea; he was pulling on his boots when Jon arrived. “Good. I thought ye’d still want to do this.”

“Why not? Hasn’t been a storm in days. Might be the perfect time, if we’re to travel ourselves or invite someone here.”

“Let’s hope the others agree.” Irik pulled the door fast behind him. “Where should we start?”

“Not the one who wants taxes.”

Irik laughed. “Definitely not.”

The council was more than willing to open trade. The mention of taxes, however, was considered a threat. “Only person we owe anythin’ to is the Queen in the North,” Gorwynd said.

“Aye. And even then.” Hranulas’s comment was met with muttered agreement.

“She may be able to help us, though,” Jon said, hating the way it sounded. Sansa had helped enough. More than anyone would have liked were the threat not so great. And there was no telling how many of the council would want to go north as soon as they could- it wasn’t exactly something they’d discussed.

They must’ve trusted him enough, though, because rather than protest they offered questioning looks.

“A lord bypassing the queen’s authority to make an arrangement with us is acting in direct defiance of her orders. Not to mention nothing can be guaranteed to either side without a formal agreement.”

“So you’re sayin’ we go back to Winterfell and raise a complaint?” Bjakmar asked.

“Snitches get stitches,” Baegir said. “Though I see your point.”

“Most of our fighters are at Winterfell, anyway. I’m sure they’d be glad to have a chance to scare some southern shites, even if all they can do is intimidate,” Tormund said.

“Hang on,” Gorwynd said. “Ye can’t mean _we’d_ be travelin’ there, too? Leaving our village unguarded just to piss on some lord’s pride?”

“Village won’t be unguarded,” Hranulas said. “He’s not suggestin’ we take the fighters who live here. And it’s not as if the castle needs the ones who stayed. Got fightin’ men o’ their own, don’t they? Will your sister agree?”

All faces turned to Jon.

“I think so. Though I know better than to speak for her. Or the Free Folk in Winterfell, for that matter.”

Baegir waved an arm. “No question about them. They’ll get one word of this lord an’ his suggested tribute and be leadin’ the march there.”

“Think it’d be best if we don’t call it a march,” Jon suggested.

“Maybe not. But that’s what it’ll be,” said Baegir. “Well, if that’s all-” he stood.

“Sit down! We haven’t discussed what we want to trade for, or whether we’re sendin’ the newest pots or the shit pots,” Hranulas said.

“Send the shit pots,” three people said at once.

“Not like they’ll know the difference,” another added.

“Aye.”

“Where are we getting’ these pots o’ food from?”

“Irik,” Jon said. “He’s in charge of all the stores. He’ll know what we can spare and what we can’t.”

Irik nodded. “I can give you something to trade and when you’re back we’ll keep the traded goods here. A fair exchange. People want whatever we get, they can trade us back food for it. This way no one’s gotta lose their own, an’ we all have a chance at what ye bring back.”

“Meetin’ complete,” Hranulas said, and followed Baegir to the door.

“Why do we always listen to them?” Irik asked as he and Jon gathered up the maps.

Bjakmar leaned across the table, but didn’t bother to keep his voice low. “Because they’re fuckin’ old.”

“Aye,” a few people agreed.

“We didn’t decide when we’re leaving,” Jon said. “Or who’s going.”

Irik shrugged. “Didn’t think that many were goin’. Gorwynd sounds determined not to leave even if she is bored outa her mind, an’ I don’t see either of those old arses gettin’ back on a horse, least not for somethin’ you could do for them.”

“So you’re saying everyone assumes I’ll go because it’s my sister?”

“That’s exactly what he’s saying,” Tormund said, slapping a hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“S’not like we don’t know Tormund’s going with ye. His daughters are there. Not to mention he’s made it very clear in the past that if someone worth fuckin’s going somewhere, he can scarce find a reason not to follow.”

Jon went red. “We’re not- I mean we-”

“I said ye were _worth_ fucking, Jon. Live close enough I think I’d know if ye’d done it.”

Tormund burst out laughing.

“Tormund’s a right arse when he’s sweet on someone,” Gorwynd said as she passed. Jon was grateful to see she was one of the last people in the hall. “Pretty sure we’ll all be able to tell you’re together for good and all if only ‘cause of the shite he’ll be doin’ for ye.”

Rather than face another undetermined stretch of teasing from Irik, Jon followed her out. Tormund caught up to him a few minutes later. “Ye forgot your maps.”

“I don’t need them. Not to get back to Winterfell, anyway. Assuming I’m worth fucking enough to be worth following?” It came out too harsh. Wrong.

Tormund had to know Jon didn’t mean it. All he said was, “Wasn’t me that said it.” He didn’t sound offended, or angry. Didn’t sound repentant, either. So he must have understood.

Except Jon wasn’t even sure himself. How much he’d meant it. “You didn’t disagree.”

Tormund sighed, the quietest exhalation. His hand brushed the back of Jon’s. “What’s wrong?”

Jon took the rest of the walk to think about it. When they were safely inside, he forced himself to cross the room, and sit, before saying anything. The wolves were all asleep, even the returned Ghost, and none of them seemed to mind the company. Jon still kept his voice low. “I’ve been called pretty my whole life. Always a joke. Shame he’s a bastard- and I didn’t care. It’s not about that. But no one’s ever- I’m not used to people meaning it like they did back there.”

Tormund’s voice was low, but steady. “What, like it’s a good thing? Or just a joke, and not an insult to you and your family and anyone who’d take you in?” Jon knew from the way he’d said it that Tormund understood. How did he understand? What it was to be a bastard in a castle that merely tolerated you?

But, then, he was Tormund Giantsbane, a Wildling in the south. One of the few people who had any idea how it felt to be treated like Jon had been for years and years. Jon shook his head. Tormund, this was Tormund. These were the Free Folk. “I’m not a knight or a lord, it doesn’t do me good to have this face or this hair. I’ve always been the pretty bastard, and-” _good on Lord Stark_ , he didn’t say. Good on Ned Stark for making the most of his time in the south. Over and over and fucking over for as long as he could remember listening. All the remaining fight fell out of him. “It’s never helped I’m so godsdamned small.”

“You’re not that small.”

“I don’t need to be complimented, Tormund.”

“What do ye need?”

“I don’t know. To say that? I don’t know why I still get upset over stupid shit like this. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter anymore.” Jon didn’t know why he felt so frustrated. Angry, even. None of it mattered, especially among the Free Folk, he knew that.

Tormund’s soft voice confirmed it. “You had to care your whole life. I’m not sayin’ it’s right, but letting me lay claim to you in a roomful of village leaders doesn’t sound like a thing you’d do if ye truly did care. Well, unless... You weren’t trying to make some sorta point?”

Jon laughed dryly. “No. I wasn’t. But I wasn’t going to deny it. Not outright, anyway,” he added, going a bit red in spite of himself. Whole point was that they were together and it didn’t matter how, yet he felt the need to clarify-

Tormund pulled the other chair out with a gentle scrape and sat beside him. “So ye don’t care.”

That was what he’d been saying, wasn’t it? To himself. To Sansa. It’s what he wanted to say to everyone else. The town of Abermance at large and every single one of the Winterfell guards. If Jon really didn’t care, none of it would matter. But that wasn’t right, either, because it did matter, both of them being alive and him not really wanting to leave Tormund’s side for more than a few hours at a time. It was important they had that. He wanted to hold this one thing up he had- I’m alive- next to this person he didn’t have so much as have the privilege of loving- Jon wanted to hold those up and be proud of them. “I don’t know if not caring’s the right way to say it.”

Tormund listened.


	16. Chapter 16

“I care about you. I care that I’m alive,” Jon said, realizing that was true in a way it hadn’t been for a very long time. “I suppose I wasn’t expecting it to come up like that. Our being-” together, involved, not fucking but wanting to? “-this. I didn’t think it’d come up in a council meeting. Or come up at all, really.” At his last words Jon realized how foolish he’d been. Of course it’d come up. The Free Folk spoke their minds and did it often. Little chance someone wouldn’t comment on him and Tormund at some point, likely sooner rather than later. “I feel so stupid.”

“You’re not. It’s the south that’s stupid.”

“If they wish not for children let them serve, I think it was. The words of the seven people always repeated to me when I said I was joining the Watch.” Jon laughed. “I never wanted children because they’d be bastards, too. Never any sense in it.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Want them now?”

Jon shook his head. “What, now I’m Free? I don’t know. Who would I have them with, you?”

“Hranulas and Baegir raised five.”

Jon sat, staring at the table, for a while. He hadn’t even considered it, before. Should have. It happened all too often in the true north- parents falling victim to nature or violence, children being taken in by whoever would care for them. He’d seen the worst of it with his own eyes. Finally Jon looked up, said, “I thought we didn’t have to plan.”

“We don’t. I’m not askin’ you to. Just thought you should know it was somethin’ you could have.” We, we, Jon had said it and Tormund kept saying it. Saying _I won’t leave you_ with it. And then saying ‘you,’ like- well, they didn’t have to do it together. No one ever did. Especially not among the Free Folk.

If Jon hadn’t had Winterfell to grow up in he’d never have dreamed family could be a necessity. Never have dreamed he’d want it, for his own children, if he ever- “Would you want to do that again?”

“Doesn’t matter. Not my life.”

Jon wanted to say of course it mattered, because how could he have anything- a bastard or an orphan or a fucking direwolf cub, if one of them turned out too weak for winter- how could Jon have anything in his life without it being in Tormund’s, too? “You realize how ridiculous that sounds?”

“It doesn’t. You forget you’re free. We can have things in our lives that don’t cross into the others. I have my daughters.”

“That’s different. They’re grown.”

“Maybe. But you wouldn’t have had to raise them. Not unless you wanted to.”

Jon thought of a place in which children weren’t heirs or property. A place they were as free to choose their fate as anyone else. That was where he was now, if they stayed. A place where people took care of each other regardless of who their father was. Plenty had tried, in the north. Catelyn had tried. All the living Starks were his siblings now, because of that. Would be ‘til the day their names were forgotten from history unless someone else learned the names of Jon’s true parents. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be a bastard somewhere farther south, tied to a less forgiving family. “That’s another part of the southern religion I never understood. How they could preach taking care of each other but value blood so highly.”

“You’re speaking a lot of the gods.”

“I’m trying to make sense of things. Is it even right to want children, when I don’t know…” Jon shook his head. “I was never sure. About any of it. The gods, what was right, what it meant to be good. But at least before I thought- it was easier. Even in the Watch it was easier, because it was before I was reminded how much I don’t know in a way that-” death, in a way that you couldn’t come back from.

Tormund sighed. “My ma always said if it made you happy and wasn’t hurtin’ anyone-”

Jon’s words came in a rush, “I don’t know what this place will be when summer comes. I don’t know if we’ll be here. I don’t know-”

“So stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Tryin’ to know. Right now. Said it yourself- we don’t have to plan. We shouldn’t. I know it’s hard. Waiting. Still our lot. For now all there is is thinking what you want and doing it if you can.”

Jon met his eyes, finally. Saw nothing but patience and honesty there. Decided to ask the question he’d considered asking for a long time, knew he would eventually because he wouldn’t feel half as good about any of it if he didn’t know the answer. “Why do you want to be with me?”

Tormund reached out, placed a hand over Jon’s on the table. Held his gaze steady and true. “S’like we said before. Can’t go through what we been through and not know a person. And even after knowin’ all that, we still don’t seem to be tired of each other.”

Jon laughed. It was silly, hearing things he’d heard from Tormund a thousand times and feeling so relieved by them. Hearing ‘of course I want to be with you, you idiot’ in different words and realizing the reassurance had been there all along if only Jon had noticed it. “You know sometimes I miss you when we’re in the same room? If you’re working or asleep. When I can’t talk to you and I wish I could.”

“Next time wake me. Bother me.”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t think I should.”

“Jon-”

“If I didn’t remember what it felt like I’d start taking it for granted. Being around you so much. I’d forget the times when I couldn’t.” Months in prison. Months in Dragonstone. Dead. “I think I’m alright, with the way it is now.”

“So we won’t change it.”

Jon smiled grimly. “We’ve got to go to Winterfell.”

“This place’ll still be waiting when we get back.”

“Aye.” Jon shook his head, tried to clear it. “We need to feed the wolves again.”

Tormund went to the door unprompted, brought a bit of meat inside. “She should have a name, even if she does take her pups and go the second the last o’ the snow melts. Not right, just callin’ her the wolf.”

“What did you have in mind?”

The next day they went about their business, with the slight difference of Jon overseeing everyone’s lessons so Irik could assess the keep’s food supply. Though nobody liked having things explained to them as sternly as the children did it- given they were better equipped to translate than Jon- the presence of a few more respected adults in the room polished their behavior somewhat.

“You’ll have fun,” Jon said to Irik afterwards. “Teaching them all. Interesting to see how they work together.”

“The young ones like bein’ in charge. Never got to do it before.”

“I suppose that helps.”

Tormund snorted. “Ye bet it does. Normally there’d be a peckin’ order based on the ages o’ the children. Like us- age grants authority. I’m afraid there hasn’t been much time for that in years past.”

“There is now.”

“Aye.” Irik watched the last few children scamper out of the hall, door thudding heavily behind them. “It’s a good thing ye’ve done for us, Jon.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Sure. But it’s a good thing. Givin’ us a chance. To survive here.” Irik met his eyes. “We’ll always be grateful for that.”

“Anyone decent would have done it.”

“Not many decent.”

“I know.” Jon looked away, towards the door. “Like to think all of us are decent.”

“Aye. We can teach the southerners a thing or two.”

Jon smiled. “Gods willing you’ve already started. Reckon Pyne’s passed on a few good stories by now.”

“Soon enough we’ll be spreadin’ more.”

Jon raised his eyebrows. “Don’t think the winter’ll last?”

Irik shrugged. “Don’t know. Been half a year already.”

Jon started. “Hadn’t realized it’d been so long.”

“Got so used to peace, eh? Good. Guessin’ it’ll be two or three years at least, so...” Irik shrugged. “Good bit of the way through, if it’s short.”

Jon marveled at time on the walk home and was surprised to find Tormund already back. “What are you doing here so early?”

Tormund shrugged. “They don’t need me. And I had some things to add, to the map.” He was seated at the table, pen in one hand and other splayed out over the map, seeking out points with his fingers before carefully dipping into the ink.

“Do you know we’ve been here half a year?”

Tormund set the pen down in a safe spot and stared. “Aye.”

Jon nodded towards the map. “That dry?”

“No.”

“I’ll have to be careful. Put the lid on the ink for me?”

Tormund did it without breaking eye contact. “What are you doing, Jon?”

“Not sure. Just know half a year’s too fucking long,” he said, and climbed into Tormund’s lap.

“Jon.”

“Tormund.”

“Little wolf.”

It’d been too sincere for him to fire back ‘Giantsbane.’ “What?”

“You’re hard.”

“I noticed.”

“Haven’t done anything.”

“That’s the problem.”

“ _Jon_.”

Jon stopped trying to kiss him and attempted to be serious.

“We don’t have to do this.”

Voice too desperate, “Do you want to?”

Tormund laughed. “Of course I want to.”

“So do it.”

“ _Jon_.”

Jon stopped kissing his neck to pull back and look at him.

“Slow down, little wolf. Got much more time than we’ve wasted. You said it yourself, last night- things are good, the way they are now. Shouldn’t be in a rush to change ‘em.” He kissed Jon in that long lazy way he liked. Making a point. Jon whined low when he pulled away. “Want to take my time.”

“I don’t.”

Tormund put one hand on each of his shoulders, held Jon a few inches away. “There’s some things we can’t do. Or- I won’t. Not fast. Not like this.”

“You mean fucking?”

Tormund’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Aye. Prefer to have more than a few seconds’ notice before one of us is taking the other’s cock.”

That wasn’t a fair thing to say to anyone as hard as Jon was right- “Then we’ll do something else and save the proper fucking for later.”

Tormund obliged him.

What they were doing definitely still counted somehow, though, because the next time Gorwynd saw them she burst out laughing.

“Fuck off,” Jon said. He wasn’t quite as twisted up about all the attention after having spoken to Tormund about it, but that didn’t mean he was ready to have their fucking-not-fucking paraded around the hall.

Especially when Gorwynd was the one doing said parading. “Don’t need me for that.”

Jon sighed and decided that being teased about it was far better than being executed for it. Didn’t help much. “How can you even tell the difference?”

Gorwynd nodded towards Tormund, who was talking to Irik a few yards away. “Way he looks at ye. Though I suppose it’ll only get worse.”

Before Jon could ask what _that_ meant, Bjakmar was approaching with a message for someone at Winterfell, a guard he’d been talking strategy with last time. At the sight of Bjakmar’s handwriting Jon snorted. “You write better than me.”

“Makes sense. I’m at all the council meetin’s, aren’t I? Who’ve ye got to impress?”

“No one,” Jon said. Made him feel lighter even though he’d known it already.

They took a small wagon and two horses, sat beside each other wrapped in furs. The only things in the wagon beside the goods for trade were the wolves; the pups were too young to be out in the cold, but their mother wouldn’t take shelter with anyone else. Didn’t have much choice but to bring them along.

“We’ll get there sooner than last time,” Jon said.

“Longer trip back, though, dependin’ on how many books we get. Sleep in the wagon?”

“Maybe. Though we’d have to put out the fire for that. And I don’t know if the wolves’ll like close quarters.”

Tormund shrugged. “Got the tent. Maybe that’s better.”

Jon hesitated for a minute before realizing the question was best gotten out of the way. “What did you mean?”

Tormund raised his eyebrows. “’Bout what?”

Jon knew better than to think the gravity of his question had gone unnoticed. “You’re an arse.”

Tormund nodded. “Aye. S’why it takes so long.”

Jon considered shoving him off the cart for that until he caught the evenness- if not total innocence- in Tormund’s expression. “Oh.”

“Need oil, too.”

“Right.” For all Jon had imagined he hadn’t considered the practicalities. “Feel like an idiot.”

“Did you grow up in Dorne?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see how ye would’ve known.”

Jon stared at him for a long moment. “I’ve lived in the south my whole life and I don’t think I’d’ve remembered that they don’t care who you fuck in Dorne.”

Tormund took his eyes off the road to look at Jon. “S’it a surprise I remembered?”

“No. Not at all. You just- I forget. I forget how smart you are, sometimes. Guess that makes me an idiot even if my not knowing how to fuck a man didn’t.”

“Not knowin’ something never makes you an idiot. Fact you realize it at all- that there’re things you don’t know, and the fact ye acknowledge it- that makes you smarter than most southerners I’ve met.”

“Expect you’re about to meet a few more. Have to tell me what you think.” They’d be in charge of the trade talks; Winterfell Free Folk couldn’t exactly speak for Abermance.

Tormund shook his head. “Jus’ when you think it’s time to settle somethin’ like this happens.”

Jon knocked his shoulder. “Don’t you dare, Giantsbane. We are settled. For the winter at least. This is a diplomatic mission. We scare the shite out of some stupid lords and then we’re right back in our hut.”

“Am I an idiot for believin’ you?”

“No,” Jon said firmly. “Never. Least not when it matters. Not now.”

Tormund smiled and looked ahead. “Good. Didn’t think so, but good.”

“Gorwynd was right.”

“About what?”

“You’re only going to get worse.”

Tormund snorted.

“I don’t think I mind,” Jon said.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry im late here be the chapter

Instead of the fanfare they’d received at the gates on their first trip back to Winterfell, the two of them were greeted with a few shouted hellos, and then the sound of their names being yelled around to all the other guards.

“Back so soon, brother?” Sansa was waiting in the courtyard for them; she must’ve asked to be told as soon as they were spotted.

“It’s been months. But aye.” Jon jumped down from the wagon and hugged her like he always did- like this was the only chance they’d get, even though he knew in his bones it wasn’t. “And I’ve got a surprise.”

Sansa followed him around the back of the wagon, to where Ghost was guarding the pups. “Oh,” she said when she saw them.

“Can’t let them free or they’ll eat the chickens,” Jon explained. “They’ll have to stay with us. Not very well trained.”

Sansa shot a glance at him before locking her eyes on the little wolves again. “You trained Ghost.”

“Ghost didn’t have a mother to teach him. They do.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows.

“She’s out hunting now. Ghost found a friend, and he brought her back to ours so they’d live. Tormund named her after you.”

Sansa smiled softly. “Another direwolf south of the Wall.”

“And a Wildling’s sister Queen in the North.”

Sansa’s smile widened. “You can’t let anyone hear you, you know. Calling you Wildlings is bad form. Implies I’ve a right to control you somehow. Suggests you’re incapable of ruling yourselves.”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t think things like that are so important, anymore. At least not in the north. Not after everything we’ve seen.”

“The southern kingdoms have seen plenty of war, and I think they’d disagree.” Sansa sighed. “But you’re right. We aren’t like that. Never have been. Wouldn’t accept you down here otherwise.”

Jon grinned. “I was wondering when you’d mention the letters.”

Sansa furrowed her brow. “You got _more than one_?”

It turned out only one of the lords had said anything to Sansa, though she’d communicated with all of them about the Free Folk at some point.

They were discussing it in the room behind the hall, where Sansa took all her smaller meetings. No one was present but the three of them. “I can discuss this with my advisors later,” Sansa assured Jon. He had relayed the plan to ask Free Folk to go on a trade trip with them. “As long as you stay away from the Karstarks- who have no right, as you said, to ask for any kind of tribute at all, and are defying my orders in doing so- I don’t think you’ll have much of an issue. Though I strongly suggest everyone keep their weapons sheathed within a few miles of the towns.”

“You think it’s alright to go to both?” Jon asked.

“It’d be unwise not to. You’d be showing favor to one over the other, and they’re in close enough proximity that I see no great inconvenience, unless the weather gets in the way.”

Jon glanced at Tormund, hesitant. While it was true neither town was very far from Winterfell, Cerwyn was south down the Kingsroad and Hornwood was straight east through less-traveled lands. The best option would be to go south first, stop back in Winterfell for a night, then head to Hornwood. After that it’d make sense for Jon and Tormund to go straight north, while the other Free Folk could make the much-shorter journey back to Winterfell. A storm could strand them at any point, though they’d been careful enough to avoid getting trapped partway between Abermance and Winterfell on any of their trips thus far. “I’m not sure our luck will hold,” Jon finally said.

“It’d help if the Karstarks weren’t the problem,” Tormund said grimly.

“I know,” Sansa said. “I’m trying to get a group together to return to Last Hearth, but between the damage and the weather we’ll need at least a false summer if they are to succeed.”

“That’s not likely this early, is it?” Jon asked.

“No. Not if the winter’s half as long as the last.” Sansa turned to Tormund. “Ritte seemed interested in Last Hearth. It couldn’t be totally free, but it might be a good bridge between us in the future.”

“I thought Ritte was headed south?”

Sansa shrugged. “It may be years yet before that’s wise. Although I don’t doubt she’d be able to handle the journey.”

Jon sighed. “We’ve got all the land for farming and none of the people to work it.”

Sansa smiled. “We can’t ask anyone to come north for land until it’s warm enough to farm it all. Not to mention coming to an agreement with Bran.”

Jon started. “You’re going to ask people north?”

“Why not? The south’s got plenty of people and no food. Do some good to even things out, don’t you think?”

“Wise,” Tormund said. “Won’t invite them north if you can’t feed them, but it’d be better for everyone if they could feed themselves.”

“Exactly. I’ve had quite a while to get to know the people who live here, and the Free Folk were happy to explain how they kept you all fed without the help of royally-sanctioned trade. Which reminds me- do you have anything to spare for Winterfell? We could make sure it gets farther south, maybe teach them a thing or two about keeping it.”

They handed over Irik’s accounts of their supplies. Sansa promised to look them over at her meeting the next day. “In the meantime…” she stood. “Enjoy the castle.”

Jon didn’t bother to ask where she was going; no doubt she had a never-ending list of queenly duties. He turned to Tormund. “How does a two-hour bath sound to you?”

Jon hadn’t been so clean and warm both at once since... gods, he couldn’t remember.

“You look content.”

“I am content,” Jon said. They were curled in bed with a raging fire, ten layers of fur, and each other to keep warm. It was the most of Tormund’s skin he’d ever touched and he couldn’t say he minded. “Dare I say I’m happy?”

“That cursing thing’s southern shite. You only dare if you believe you do. And so what if it is? A dare to be happy? You deserve it.”

“Deserve,” Jon echoed. “Hate that word.”

“You shouldn’t. Know it don’t mean anything. No more than any other words do. S’long as ye understand we can’t control all we get.”

Jon breathed in the scent of Tormund undercut with nothing but soap and woodsmoke and thought he’d never felt more at home in his life. “Is it bad that I take that to mean I should kiss you in the practice yard?”

“Didn’t think you’d be spendin’ much time in the practice yard. Not when we’ve got so much to do here.”

Jon snorted. “So much what?”

Tormund nipped at his throat so light it made Jon shiver.

“And you talking so much about slow.”

“Still mean it. Don’t mean we can’t spend hours doing this.”

“What, laying here?”

“Aye, laying here, if you want.”

Jon pulled him in for a kiss, long and slow. “We’ve got ‘til dinner.”

“How long is that?”

“Not long enough for you, I’m guessing. Not to mention we’d have to go back to the baths.”

“Won’t get dirty, then,” Tormund said, and yanked a blanket between them.

Jon hissed his annoyance.

“Ye said you didn’t want to bathe again.”

“I won’t sit at table with a queen looking disheveled and sweaty.”

Tormund snorted, then began trailing kisses down his torso. “Best try not to sweat, then.”

Jon couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so ridiculously self-conscious. Maybe the first time. But he and Tormund hadn’t even... alright, they’d done enough, and the way Tormund kept sneaking glances at him out the corner of his eye made it clear to anyone paying attention they were fucking or as good as. Especially if Sansa’s expressions were anything to go by.

“I haven’t seen your hair this nice since Robert Baratheon came north,” Sansa said. Despite Jon’s decent-looking hair, she kept looking between Jon and Tormund and smirking, which was not at all helpful.

Jon sighed. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“I don’t know. You’d been wearing it tied up so long I forgot how much nicer it was than mine.”

“S’not nicer than yours,” Jon said. “But thank you for the praise, my queen.”

“I wouldn’t call it praise. More an observation, really. Though you do look lovely.”

Tormund choked on his wine.

Jon slapped a hand on his back and stared at Sansa.

“What? I never told you how much I admired your hair before, and now I have the chance.”

“Sansa.”

“Jon.”

“Must you?”

Sansa’s expression was too shrewd. “If it wasn’t teasing you it’d be sharing your happiness, but I’m not sure you’ll let me do that.”

Jon grimaced into his cup. “Feels too early.”

“It’s been six months and you seem quite alright to me.”

Jon looked up. “I am quite alright.”

“Good. Maybe start enjoying it.”

“That’s what I told him.”

Jon narrowly resisted the urge to step on Tormund’s foot under the table.

“Smile,” Sansa said with a soft one of her own. “You’re allowed.”

Jon did in spite of himself. “I’m still mad at you.”

“Oh, are you?” Sansa said. “Do I need to give you a few more hours before dinner next time?”

“Don’t think we can accomplish much in a few hours,” Tormund said.

“I’m gonna kill him. You have to stop talking, Sansa, or I’m going to kill him.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Aye, I’m not,” Jon said. “But I want to.” And he elbowed Tormund in the ribs for good measure.

Back in their room- for it was theirs, now, as far as Jon was concerned- they stripped to the waist and got under the covers, which had been set to rights while they’d been at dinner. The fire was roaring, the wolves were tucked safe in a corner, and Jon could keep track of the seconds with Tormund’s even breaths. He had both his arms around Tormund’s waist, his head resting against Tormund’s chest, and Tormund’s hand combing through his hair. There was nothing in the moment but peace, and Jon couldn’t help but be grateful for it.

At least until Tormund broke the peace by saying, “You know, so long as the queen approves it...”

“Tormund,” Jon whined.

“I thought you liked my honesty.”

“I do. Doesn’t mean I’m going to snog you at dinner.”

“Who said anything about snogging at dinner?”

“I know you were thinking about it.”

“I wasn’t.” It was clear in his tone Tormund had been thinking about something incredibly similar and was satisfied Jon hadn’t guessed correctly.

Yet. “Sitting in my lap at dinner.”

“Though I suppose that’s a good deal more respectable for a former king than the other way around, no, I was not considering-”

“Hanging all over me until it was very clear we were together even though it wouldn’t be if you’d been touching my hair less.”

“S’not a fair game when ye can read my mind, you know.”

“Can’t read that. Can hardly read your maps.”

“Mmm, ye’re lying, but thanks.”

“For what?”

“Pretendin’ everything I think isn’t clear as day on my face even after all the time I’ve spent around you and highborn lords tryin’ to train it outa me.”

“I wouldn’t. How could I read your mind then?”

“Ye’d still know,” Tormund said, smile clear in his voice. “Others might not, but ye’d still know.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: I HAD THIS FLIPPED WITH 19 BY MISTAKE IT IS NOW FIXED THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO POINTED IT OUT IT
> 
> italics = Old Tongue

“Farther fucking south,” Tormund said with a sigh.

“You volunteered,” Jon reminded him.

“Aye. For you.”

Jon shook his head. “You didn’t have to come. I’d have been alright.”

“Ye wouldn’t have got a wink o’ sleep, not to mention having no one decent to watch your back, even if you think ye don’t need it down here.”

“Fine compliment you’ve paid all the good people riding with us. And I’d be in danger if we were going farther south than we are, maybe. But we’re still very much in the north.” The thick layer of snow crunching under their horses’ hooves attested to that.

“Still more confidence than ye should have, little wolf. There are no kings-”

“I know,” Jon said, swatting at him even though they were too far for contact. Riding down the Kingsroad with a contingent of Free Folk just about as close as they could get without their horses crashing and all Jon wanted was to be on the same fucking horse. Ridiculous. It’d slow them down. “How do you think the sleeping arrangements will be?”

Tormund snorted. “You an’ me in a fancy room and the rest in barracks?”

Jon shook his head. “We’re guests of the queen. If they don’t give us the nicest accommodations they can manage-”

“I’d settle for anything out of the snow,” Dastin said, coming up alongside her father. She kept a foot or two more distance than Jon did, so she had to nearly shout to be heard over the wind. “Ye don’t think we’ll get stuck there too long?”

“Doesn’t matter. We need to open trade.” Jon shot a glance backwards at the wagon, which was being successfully dragged up the middle of their column. “As long as it doesn’t start snowing ‘til we get there.” He hoped not. They’d left the wolves with Sansa, and, trust them though he might, he didn’t want to leave them in an unfamiliar place any longer than necessary.

It started snowing well before they got there, and it was a miracle they made it the whole way. If they weren’t Free Folk Jon wasn’t sure they would have managed.

“We’ve been expecting you,” Lord Cerwyn said, greeting them in the castle yard. He was a stout man well into middle age; the few scars on his face, and the way he carried himself a bit off-balance, suggested he’d seen his share of fighting. “Glad to see you brought provisions. Though I can’t say the queen warned me what to call you, apart from free.”

“Call me Jon.” Jon shook his hand. “This is Tormund, and his daughter Dastin. Most of us are staying in Winterfell.”

“But I understand you are not among them?”

“No. Tormund and I help up at Abermance.”

“Help, is it? With the leadership in the village?”

“Yes.” Jon and Tormund followed Lord Cerwyn through the hall, where Dastin and the others stopped to rest, and into a smaller chamber. Cerwyn seemed fascinated by the way Abermance was run, though Jon couldn’t be certain if it was innocent interest or something more pointed. Cerwyn also insisted that the two of them, as well as whoever was considered a leader amongst the Winterfell contingent, dined at his table. The rest would be well taken care of among the castle guards, and they would be allowed to sleep in whichever area they found most comfortable.

“I’m expecting you’ll have a room, of course,” Lord Cerwyn said. “I understand what it is to get accustomed to living hard, but I really must insist on it.”

Jon smiled even as Tormund was hooking an ankle ‘round his under the table. “We don’t live so very hard, my lord. The foundations from the town before us made it simpler to build.”

“You will have to share some of that news with my maester. I’m afraid we’ve lost the old ways, being so easy to reach up the Kingsroad, but things are different now the north is ours again.”

“Aye. Though I’m certain King Bran will be more than willing to help once the south is in order.”

“He should take a lesson from your people in ruling,” Cerwyn said. He leaned forward, addressing Tormund this time. “I understand Mance Rayder brought countless clans together when he ruled. Whatever he did, it may provide useful advice for uniting the south.”

“When winter’s over, perhaps,” Tormund said. “Can’t see much rebellion in weather like this, even if down there it’s warm enough to take your gloves off without losing a finger.”

“That’s another thing your people have that southerners don’t,” Cerwyn said, raising his glass. “Humor.”

When Cerwyn insisted on putting Jon in nicer accommodations than he had accepted on his way north (despite that room being plenty comfortable), Jon kicked Tormund under the table.

“I’m sure if it’s good enough for Jon it’s good enough for me,” Tormund said. “Wherever he stayed last, I mean. Closer to where the rest of the Free Folk will be sleeping, is it?”

“Much. Same corridor, for anyone who wants more privacy. Are you certain no one else wishes to take a room?”

Tormund shrugged. “A few might. I can ask.”

“Please do. Any free rooms have been made up. The queen suggested I offer the option rather than coerce you into unfamiliar quarters.”

“Wise on her part. I’m sure at least a few o’ them won’t say no to a bath.”

Cerwyn frowned. “Your wells must be long dried or long frozen.”

“Aye. Though we’ve got some tricks for collectin’ snow, and we were able to get one well running before the freeze set in.” Another of Tormund’s many talents- with the approval of a few older souls, he had chosen the spot to dig when they’d first got there.

“I’m glad to hear it. I daresay our snow doesn’t stay as clean or last as long as yours does.”

“No,” Jon agreed. “Even so, reckon it’s a bit colder in the Gift than down here.”

“I don’t doubt it. We’ve had a fair few traders come through when they could. Don’t expect you’ve been so lucky?”

“Wouldn’t be down here if we had.”

The conversation continued through dinner, and after Jon had spent a few minutes messing his sheets, he headed straight for Tormund’s room.

“Ye don’t waste much time.” Tormund was sitting by the fire, slumped low in one of the two chairs and looking tired by the haste of their journey’s end.

“Why should I?” Jon shut the door and locked it behind him. “I don’t need to raise suspicions asking where you are this way, and it isn’t as if anyone will come barging into my room in the middle of the night.”

“What’d you think?”

“Of Cerwyn?” Jon shrugged. “Seems alright. Glad Sansa wrote ahead of us. If any lords entertaining Free Folk think their doing well will please the queen- which sounds like the impression she gave- they'll be more than happy to let us in so long as we keep our weapons sheathed.”

“Shame for that. Dastin’s dyin’ to try fightin’ some new southerners.”

“As long as they’re using sparring swords.”

Tormund snorted. “Right. Never be so lucky as to use a movin’ guard for practice.”

“No.” Jon smiled and climbed into his lap.

Tormund grinned as the chair creaked underneath him. “Don’t think these chairs were made to support two fighting men.”

“What about the bed?”

“May as well try.”

In the morning Jon headed back to his own room to change; despite his desire to parade around the north hand-in-hand, he knew Sansa had a point about him and Tormund remaining discreet, at least until their roles in the establishment of the Free Folk had become less noticeable.

“I don’t like it, you know, little wolf.”

“I know,” Jon said under his breath. Talking low and barely-touching under tables seemed to be as much as they could do at the moment, at least around southerners. “Maybe one day we’ll visit Dorne. Expect no one’d bat an eye at me in your lap there.”

“Would it be hot?”

“Not if we go before summer really starts. Spend the spring where no one knows our faces. Though being guests of the queen would certainly spare us the problem of money.”

Tormund sighed. “Stupid. If it wasn’t so crowded down there we could sleep outside, bathe naked in the streams, and hunt for our dinner.”

“Don’t think there’s much hunting in Dorne. Unless you fancy eating snake.”

Tormund pulled a face. “And you turn your nose up at goat’s milk.”

The weather cleared within a few days, and they set off with a lighter wagon. They’d taken money for half their trades and goods for the other half; Castle Cerwyn was the farthest north anything from the Six Kingdoms made it save the few parties that had transported supplies to Winterfell. Even then Jon understood Sansa didn’t trade much with Bran, at least not yet. Most of the things she did accept were building materials.

“What’s your sister do? About the money?” They were on their way northeast already, not having wanted to waste more than the time it took to eat and rest before departing Winterfell again.

Jon cocked his head. “What d’you mean? She traded some with us and we kept the rest.”

“Aye. But everyone has different coins in the south, don’t they? What kind will your sister use?”

“Same as we’ve always had. That, at least, won’t need to change. Most northerners have the same kind.”

“So you'll keep using gold in place of trade, but there’s no common form of money?”

Jon shrugged. “Never had a problem before. And if the queen wants to change them she’ll melt them down. Otherwise it doesn’t matter much. Can always just weigh the coin, long as it’s the right metal.”

Tormund raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t it easier to fool a man with fake coin than it is to fool him in trade?”

“I don’t know. That’s never been important, at least not to me. Though I do know it’s punishable by death- making fake money- or at least it was when I learned about it. Suppose Sansa has no reason to change the law. And even if she did, we’ve got plenty of time to hear of it.”

“You really think the winter will last that long?”

“Don’t know. Hasn’t been a year yet, has it?”

Dastin snorted. “Longer. Our maester says it’s been four-hundred and thirty-six days,” she said, coming up beside Jon. “Or it would, if you add the time since he told me.”

“What’s his name?”

“Rowleth.”

Jon shook his head. “Don’t envy him that.”

“You could.” When Jon only looked confused, Dastin continued, “Change your name.”

“I don’t know any northern names. And even if I did,” Jon added, before Tormund could start suggesting them, “I’m fine with my own.”

“I like little wolf.” Dastin was smirking.

Jon looked between her and Tormund. They looked a lot more alike when they were both making the exact same expression. Finally he said, “I don’t have an idea how any of this works, but I wouldn’t mind a bit more respect considering I’m your-” Jon cut off, unable to finish.

“Think the southerners’d call you a stepfather. If they’d let you marry me,” Tormund said much too nonchalantly.

It took all Jon’s remaining patience not to burst out laughing. As it was he still smiled, in a way that definitely made him look like he’d lost his mind. Sort of felt it, having Tormund mention the two of them and marriage in the same breath.

“You’re adorable. S’quite disgusting,” Dastin said, and moved off to another place in the column.

Jon was dimly aware Tormund was staring at him, but he couldn’t form a coherent sentence just then.

Eventually Tormund huffed a laugh and said, “You’re lucky they’re grown.”

“How?” Jon managed.

Tormund was beaming. “’Cause if they weren’t you really would be their stepfather, or something like it. An’ they’ve both been that stubborn since they were born.”

“I don’t know if stubborn’s the right word for it.”

“And I don’t know if marriage is the right word for it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The way you do it in the south. I know most of the time it’s for politics and highborn children, or that keeping yourselves alive means something even to the poorest among you. S’just different in the north.”

“Different how?”

“You know how there are three words for fucking?”

“Don’t tell me there are three kinds of-”

“There’s not. Just one, really. Means whatever meanin’ you give it. Promise in front of a weirwood. The oldest bond there is, and the strongest.”

“Do you have words for married people?”

“You mean husband and wife? Suppose. Though the words don’t mean the same.”

Jon rode for a few minutes in silence. They could get married, if they wanted to. Or the Free Folk version of it. A promise, with whatever meaning they wanted. If he hadn’t been so honorable he could have married Ygritte. Did he want it now, with Tormund? A promise? They’d already promised each other, if not in so many words. I want to be with you however you want to be with me. That had been enough. It had been everything. Would swearing it in front of a weirwood make a difference?

It would, Jon knew. Now that he was Free. He was Free Folk, and making a promise in front of a weirwood was the highest commitment there was. It’d mean all that it could, now that Jon was truly Free. More than it would have meant when he still considered himself a brother of the Night’s Watch. Finally Jon said, “That’s the way you make your truest oaths?”

“The only way that means anything to the gods.”

Jon didn’t know if there were gods. If there were, he’d have guessed they were the old ones. They’d been right about more than the seven ever had, at least in his experience. They were the only gods he’d still pray to, if he believed enough to do it. “Maybe we should. Swear an oath.”

“Best think on it. Seeing as how your last oath turned out.”

Jon smiled. “I will. Though I doubt I’ll change my mind.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: I DID HAVE THE CHAPTERS REVERSED THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR LETTING ME KNOW I FIXED IT AND CLARIFIED THE TIMELINE
> 
> I'll start posting the honeymoon tour of Westeros as soon as I can.

House Hornwood was not nearly as welcoming as House Cerwyn had been.

After a quick stop in Winterfell to sleep and trade horses, they’d headed into the snow again, this time for less welcoming environs. It was understandable, given House Hornwood had seen more trouble with the Free Folk than a castle nearer Winterfell ever would. Hornwood lands were the farthest south the Free Folk had ever raided, even if they’d never made it to the town itself. Lord Hornwood’s feelings towards them weren’t especially warm. He put on a show of welcome but claimed he had too much other business to exchange more than a few words with any of them.

“Think he’d have had a second to spare for a former king,” Tormund said under his breath.

“Don’t. I’m free, same as you.” 

“And you’ll be sleepin’ in the tent to prove it?”

“Aye,” Jon said with a nod. “But I’ll not turn away good food and a warm hearth.”

The lot of them headed into the dining hall, where, as expected, they were treated as guests. “Suppose this is something,” Tormund said before taking a sip of ale.

“Don’t want to insult the queen,” Jon replied.

“She doesn’t seem easy to insult,” Dastin said.

“No. Doesn’t mean it’s wise to try it, though.” Jon thought back on the few times in his youth he’d provoked Sansa to true anger, more often than not at the urging of his brothers. “I’d hate to see what she’d do with the full force of the north behind her.”

“Good thing no one’s foolish enough to do it,” Tormund agreed, “speaking of.” He inclined his head as Lord Hornwood entered the hall.

When the man spotted Jon, he came straight over. “There you are. Had to speak with the traders before I spoke with you. Between them and our maester’s assistant I don’t know who’s worse.” By the end of his sentence he realized none of them would stand for his presence; the deference of the Free Folk had clear boundaries. “In any case,” Hornwood continued, remaining on his feet, “We’ll have to meet tomorrow about it. I might be able to spare a room or two, though I can’t guarantee your comfort outright. I’m afraid we’re hosting more men than we can handle at present.”

“It’s no problem,” Jon said. “We’re more than happy to make our own camp.”

“For future visits, of course, but- right. I’ll see you at dinner.” He strode off.

“That was a surprise,” Jon said.

“Was it? Given your sister?” countered Tormund.

Jon snorted. “Maybe not. Where should we camp?”

“Left of the castle gate seems reasonable,” Dastin said. “Shall I spread the word?”

“Please,” Jon said.

Dastin wasted no time, grabbing her final piece of chicken and her cup and starting for the next nearest Free Folk.

“Should we help make camp?”

Jon hesitated. “I think I’d like to speak with the maester. See what kind of records they keep here compared to Winterfell.” He hadn’t done the same in Cerwyn and had come to regret it. It wasn’t that he thought Abermance should measure the quality of their library by those of other similar towns- he simply wanted a better idea of how much the smaller towns remembered, given he’d only ever seen the collections at Winterfell and Castle Black. “You can go on ahead. Trust you to pick a good place.”

“Can I go with ye?”

Jon smiled. “I should have known better than to suggest otherwise.”

To his credit, the maester was much more interested in Abermance- and everything else Jon or Tormund knew anything about, really- than Hornwood had been. His thirst for knowledge reminded Jon of the children and Sam both. When Jon asked about the latter, the maester shrugged.

“Aye,” the man said. “We’ve heard a bit from Maester Samwell. Though I don’t know how glad the Citadel is to call him that.”

“Would they rather anger the king?”

“Sometimes I wonder. Not as if they don’t think themselves above the law, is it?”

Jon and Tormund had a nice few hours with the man. “We should offer him north,” Tormund said as they made their way back to the hall for dinner. “Might take us up on it.”

“You think his Lord would let him leave?”

“Not his choice. I think it’s the Citadel, actually. Sort of like the Watch that way. Give your life over.”

“Never get used to that.”

Jon grinned. “Which part?”

“Men givin’ their lives an’ not having any control over what they’re givin’ them for.”

“The Watch did alright, and most of them were prisoners anyway. Chose our leaders, too. Don’t do that anywhere else. At the Citadel they sound a bit more loyal to the southern ways. Expect that’s why Sam didn’t stay.”

Tormund shook his head. “Seemed a good man.”

“He is. One of the best.” They’d arrived at the hall; Jon found Hornwood seated at the high table and beckoning them over. He was already accompanied by two of their number, one of whom, Jon should not have been surprised to see, was Dastin. “Should have known I’d see you here sooner or later.”

“A new leader, then?” Hornwood asked. Everyone at the table, which appeared to include Hornwood’s whole privy council, had watched Jon and Tormund’s approach, but they seemed to be deferring to Hornwood with regards to the actual discussion.

Dastin shrugged. “I mean to take some of my people back north one day. Seemed a good idea to partake in meetin’s like this, so I know what I’m in for.”

Hornwood snorted. “If my daughter was half as sharp as you I wouldn’t have had to send her away.”

“Where’d you send her, if you don’t mind my asking, my lord?”

Jon almost choked on his ale at Dastin’s propriety.

“Down to Coldwater. Expect it’ll serve well when we open trade again, if nothing else. She was never the political sort. Seems happy enough there.”

“That’s all we want for them,” Tormund said. “Though I suppose I can’t speak for her now,” he added with a nod to Dastin.

Hornwood glanced between them, seemingly unperturbed at the connection, and nodded. “Of course. I would expect no less from the daughter of a Free Folk leader.”

Jon dearly wished he could have snorted. Would have, if not for the bite of food he’d shoved into his mouth at the right moment.

Hornwood continued to refer to them as the Free Folk, though he acted a bit more dismissive of them than Jon considered friendly. The way the more indifferent lords had treated Danerys’s army, he thought with a twist of memory. By the end of the meal Jon was more than happy to head to the tents.

“Couldn’t spare a room?” Dastin said under her breath as they followed her out.

“No. We’re respecting Lord Hornwood's duty to his bannermen,” Jon said. Supposedly that was the reason they had so few rooms- needing to house fellow northerners who had nowhere else to go.

“That how they put it?”

Jon shrugged. “Easiest way for them to say it. No one says what they mean down here. Expect that’s why we’ve got so many more words.”

“Easier to trick people, you mean,” Dastin said.

“Never known a man better at it than Littlefinger. You’d have hated him.”

“Coldwater’s down that way, isn’t it?” Tormund asked.

A rough map of the area flooded Jon’s mind, no doubt much clearer for Tormund having had them spread out over the table most nights. “Near enough. His former lands are southeast of there.”

Dastin made a noise of disgust. “I thought he was the sickly sweet one.” She nodded at Tormund.

Jon looked between them. “What?”

“Sounded like _love_ just now,” Dastin clarified, using the Old Tongue for the word. “Pride that strong in your voice, s’sweet enough to make a lesser woman vom-”

Tormund smacked her shoulder. “Don’t.”

Dastin narrowed her eyes. “That why you’re not staying in a room? So as not to risk sneaking around?”

“I can sleep where I want, thanks,” Tormund said.

Jon was surprised Tormund had taken his side, but then, when she'd joked as they left, Gorwynd had the right of it- Tormund was getting worse. Even if Jon may have sounded a bit too adoring just then. In an attempt to change the subject, Jon said, “What about you, then?”

“What about me?” Dastin fired back.

“Leaders can stay inside, if they want.”

“Not a leader yet, wolf.”

“No ‘little,’ then?”

“ _Respect for my_ stepfather,” she said, mostly in the Old Tongue.

Jon couldn’t reply.

“ _You’ve struck my wolf dumb, daughter._ ”

“ _Makes no sense. How much time the southerners waste._ ”

Jon laughed at that.

Later, alone in the tent, “We’ll go up when we get back.”

“Up where?” Tormund was stroking his hair back with one hand and trying to get Jon to stop removing layers with the others. “ _Too cold, little wolf._ ”

“North. To find a weirwood. Dastin’s right. Southerners waste too much time.”

“We’re not southerners.”

They didn’t speak, the rest of the night.

Lord Hornwood dragged out the trades for a few days, and by the end snow was starting to fall.

“We’re not staying here,” one of the Free Folk said. “Lost enough time already. No telling how long we’ll be snowed in if we don’t go.”

The others agreed. “Come with us,” Dastin said to Jon as they watched the snow come down.

“Back to Winterfell?”

“Giantsbane wants you safe, and so do I.”

“For his sake, or mine?” But Jon knew she was right; there was no way they’d make the longer journey without risking getting trapped.

Dastin shook her head. “ _Only a fool does not know his worth_.”

Jon thought of all the books in the back of the wagon, and how heavy it would be even without fresh snow yet on the ground. He thought of the wolves back at Winterfell, who Sansa said could stay until the weather cleared enough for Ghost to escort them back north- or wherever it was they decided to go. Jon would like to see them again. No telling how long Ghost would be gone next time. “You’re right. Though I guess that means your father isn’t one.”

Dastin laughed. “What, a fool? He may know his worth, but there are other reasons.”

They set off as soon as they could, thanking the old gods for the lightness of the snow and making as much haste as was possible while travelling through it. It was halfway through the trip before Jon realized. “There’s a weirwood at Winterfell.”

“Aye.” Tormund’s expression remained unreadable.

“We should go farther north.”

Tormund shook his head. “No.”

Jon turned to stare at him.

“Winterfell’s fine with me. ‘Less you’d rather waste more time. We do have as much as we want to waste, now, little wolf.”

Jon set his face and looked back at the road. “Wasted too much time already.”

Tormund’s voice got softer. “We don’ have to-”

“No. I mean it. If you don’t mind?” Jon met his eyes again.

“Of course I don’t.”

“They’ll all be there, this way. Just not Arya.” Jon thought about it, let the thought settle. “It’s all politics down south. But the Free Folk... they would celebrate, wouldn’t they? With family?”

“With the families they made, aye. If they wanted to do it at all. Some don’t make a fuss of it. Others want the excuse for a gathering.”

Same as everyone without a title did it, then, thought Jon. “I’d do it in the village, but...”

Tormund shook his head. “No weirwood. They’ll understand.”

“Expect Gorwynd will be grateful.”

Tormund snorted and stared out across the snow. “The longer we’re kept away the more grateful she’ll be.”

“Will we be away long, do you think?”

Tormund sighed. “Would it really be so bad to stay at Winterfell as long as we like until heading north again?”

“I’ll have to send Irik a raven. And I love my sister, and I love heated walls, but I have to warn you I don’t think I’ll want to stay too long.”

“We don’t need a plan, little wolf. A few days south and you’re already forgetting.”

“What, how to be free?” And before Tormund could reply, Jon pulled his horse to a stop, reached out for a startled Tormund, and yanked him into a kiss.

Tormund barely managed to stop his own horse in time. “Are ye trying to kill me, little wolf?”

“Take more than that to kill Giantsbane, I thought. And I knew you wouldn’t fall.”

“Even so. Rather not have two bad knees if I can avoid it.”

“I’d catch you.”

“Who doesn’t know his worth now, eh?”

They had to stop more often than they would have liked. Still managed to get to Winterfell before the horses couldn’t get through the snow.

“Gods,” Dastin said, dismounting and passing her horse off to one of the groomsmen that had come to meet them. “Dry land.”

“You’re back.” Sansa was approaching; Jon would never cease to be impressed that she came down for every arrival, or at the very least seemed to. She can’t have known for certain it’d be him every time it was.

“Bad storm settin’ in. And we had some business here,” Tormund added, shoving Jon without looking away from Sansa.

“Alright! I get it. I won’t push you off a horse.”

“You pushed him off a-”

“No. But I’m sure he’ll tell you I did if you give him the chance.”

Tormund snorted and passed them, making for the castle.

“What’s the business?” Sansa asked.

“It isn’t. Business. Not for Free Folk. Must just be for him.” Jon was already walking towards the doors himself, not especially keen to let Tormund get himself lost just because he had a passing knowledge of the castle. “Later,” Jon said to Sansa. “I want to see the wolves.”

The queen raised her eyebrows, but made no further comment, already turning towards the head of the Free Folk party to discuss how the trip had gone.

“Tormund,” Jon called, jogging to catch up to him. “Where are you going?”

“Give you three guesses.”

“What do I get if I’m right?”

Tormund grinned. “What do you want?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

Jon finally matched pace with him, caught his hand. “Where are we going?”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the ride. Next one'll pick up where this one leaves off (like, immediately) but, again, lemee get some chapters racked up before I start posting.

“This is ridiculous.”

“ _Quiet, little wolf_.”

“ _This is ridiculous_ ,” Jon repeated in the Old Tongue.

Tormund led him around the pond. The ground was thick with leaves, scorched and dead, covered in a light layer of snow. It hadn’t come down near as hard on the castle as it had on the way in; even so, the snow was steady, now, and like as not they’d be shut inside for days to come.

When they were right under the weirwood, Tormund came to a halt, reached out, took Jon’s other hand. “Jon Stark, _little wolf_ ,” and something else, a word Jon didn’t know. “Ground that I walk on, breath that I breathe, sun in my sky,” Tormund said, looking like it was true, like Jon was everything. “ _Promise to be mine until we are gone from this world_.”

Jon’s hands tightened, hard. Like Tormund was all that was keeping him from falling through the earth below him. Maybe he was. “ _I promise. Tormund Giantsbane_ ,” and Jon fumbled the word he didn’t know but did fine with the rest, “ _Promise to be mine until we are gone from this world._ ”

“ _Yes, I promise, I already have_.” And Tormund kissed him. So soft and sweet he could have wept.

Jon laughed, breathless. “Did you just marry me?”

Tormund was beaming. “ _Might have._ There are no rules in the north, remember? But you wanted to do it here for family, no?”

“I don’t- I don’t know. Yes.” Jon was dizzy.

Tormund must have seen it; he guided them both to the ground. “So this way we are promised, and we can do it again when your sister returns. More like your way, though it’ll still be ours.”

“What do you mean?” Jon was leaning on him now, coming back to his senses by degrees. “We shouldn’t sit. We’re getting wet.”

“Warm clothes inside. I mean I didn’t want to wait. So call it what you will. The promise is done, at least. Most want a witness to call it true.”

“You need a witness in the south,” Jon said. “We’d need one for people to believe us.”

“Which people?”

Jon thought of Abermance and laughed. “You’re right. They’d have a harder time not believing it.” Tormund was still beaming, Jon saw; he could feel a disbelieving smile on his own face. “You’d wait? For Arya? I don’t-”

“You should have her here. You want to.”

Jon laughed again. “She’d call me silly for it.”

“Not her wedding.”

Jon smiled, glanced up at the weirwood. “If I didn’t have Bran for a brother I’d think it took more than a tree to marry someone.”

“Doesn’t even take a tree. That’s just tradition.” Tormund rose, helping Jon to his feet. “In the north, if you say you’re married, you’re married.”

“Wait,” Jon said, when Tormund moved to go. “I want to stay here a while.”

“ _In the presence of the gods?_ ”

“No,” Jon said, “ _Until I am used to being yours_.” He pulled Tormund to a rock that thousands of Starks had sat before him, that godswilling thousands more would. “I need time. To believe it.”

They sat there for minutes or hours, sharing the heat of the biggest cloak between them. After Tormund brushed the snow off their shoulders a third time, “I should take you inside.”

“ _Fine. But alone._ ”

Tormund raised his eyebrows.

“Not that,” Jon said with a laugh. “But I want only you, for a little while.” They went in, and straight to their room. The fire was waiting; so were the wolves. “You stayed,” Jon said, crouching a foot or so away.

Sansa opened one eye and breathed a huff in his direction.

“Fine. I’ll let you sleep.” But one of the wolves was stirring. Jon’s voice must have wakened her. “Go back to sleep, little one.”

Instead of listening, the wolf’s eyes flew open. She studied him.

“So much for only me,” Tormund said lightly.

“Shut up,” Jon said, and flailed a hand behind him. He was pleased when Tormund took the gesture as the offer it was and sat close. “They’ve gotten so big.”

“You want to name them. I can tell.” Tormund sighed. “Sansa will be gone once they’re strong enough to go.”

“It’s cold. We’ve a while yet.”

“If you name them it’ll be worse when they leave.”

“Maybe they won’t all leave.”

Tormund sighed. “Come to bed?”

“It’s afternoon.”

“You’re cold.”

Jon couldn’t argue with that. He tore his eyes away from the wolf and followed Tormund to the mattress. “You know you don’t have to be right all the time.”

“Shut up and get in.”

Jon took off his boots and his damper pieces of clothing before curling in front of Tormund. With the fire-kissed man at his back and a real fire at his front, the cold slipped away faster than Jon thought it would. “Why are you always right?”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“Leave it to me to find the only man on earth who doesn’t want to talk about how right he is.”

“ _Silly wolf_ , of course I’ll talk about it, but I thought you had something else in mind. _Alone_ ,” he repeated the phrase Jon had used earlier.

“Oh, that. Well, I have you. That’s all I wanted.”

“ _Until we are gone from this world_.”

Jon felt the phrase fall differently that time. Felt the words more. “Why that? Is that what you say?”

“What, when Free Folk marry? We say what we like, Jon. In everything. Although those are some of the more common words.”

Jon took a steadying breath. “Alright. But why did you choose them? If you say what you like, why that?”

Tormund pulled him tighter to his chest. “You were not gone from this world even for those days you were dead.”

Jon couldn’t speak. He was crying; the tears were warm.

“You’re safe, little wolf.”

“I know. I know.”

“I’m s-”

“Don’t. Please. Not for this.” Jon sniffed, gripped Tormund’s hand where he held him. “I’m glad you told me.”

“ _Fool_ husband _if I didn’t_.”

Jon agreed. With that and the words Tormund had chosen, and why he’d chosen them. He caught his breath and said, “What’s the word for husband? In the Old Tongue?”

“ _Promised_ ,” Tormund said.

“How do you know how it’s meant? If promised is the word for them all?”

“When it can be a parent made or a brother sworn, as often as a marriage? The way a person says it. The way he stands when he does. The look in his eyes.”

“We rely on that a lot in the north, don’t we? Instead of words.”

“We do. You’re good at it.”

“I’m shite.”

“You _were_ shite. But you’ve learned.”

“Can’t have.”

Tormund laughed into his neck. “How much do you talk at council meetings?”

“As little as I can.”

“And how much do they listen to you?”

Jon realized Tormund’s point and pressed a heel into his foot.

“So I am right, then?” Tormund said, almost smug.

“We weren’t talking about that.”

“Pick something else, then.”

“What will you say? When you marry me again?” Jon knew what he implied as he said it and felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the fire. _Again_.

“Don’t know yet.”

“Common?”

“Doesn’t mean the same if your sisters don’t understand it.”

“We should use both. For Dastin and Ritte, too.”

There was a smile in Tormund’s voice. “What will you say, then?”

“ _Until I am gone from this earth_ ,” Jon repeated.

And then, much lighter than Jon had been but with a hint of truth in it, “What if you get bored of me?”

“I won’t.”

“You can’t know the future.”

Jon turned to face him. “ _I mean what I say, Giantsbane._ ”

“ _I didn’t say you lied._ ”

“Good as.”

“We don’t trick with words, in the north.”

“No, we don’t.” And then, just to say it, “ _Promised_.”

“What do you promise?”

“You said no planning.”

“Dreaming isn’t planning.”

Jon stared into the eyes of the man he loved and said, “What if we never left here?”

“ _Making love in the south ‘til the end of time?_ ”

“Aye.”

“I know you have better dreams.”

Jon thought. “Seeing somewhere with warm water and warm sand.”

“ _You don’t like rocks?_ ”

“ _Rocks are cold._ ” And then, “Going north with you again.”

Tormund slid his hand down Jon’s back, pressed him close. “Tell me more.”

“I want to go south and see the sun hot for once in my life, to swim in the sea and drink the world’s best wine and talk and laugh with people who don’t mind I love you. Then we can start north again. See my brother. Get all we could ever want of any city and never have to set foot in one again.” Jon had never liked cities. Also never been in a proper one. Never been south for more than a few weeks, either. He’d like to see it, before he settled for good.

“You’re beautiful when you’re dreaming.”

Jon believed him. He believed him. “What do you want?”

“You won’t complain.”

“ _Never_.” Jon smiled. “But what?”

“This. Only this. If this was all I got I’d die a happy man.”

“ _Seen too much of life?_ ” Jon asked.

“So have you.” A moment later, “I’ve been free. You haven’t. What else do you want?”

“A bigger fire at home.”

“Aye,” Tormund said. “I think we can do that. What else?”

“You’re making me do all the work.”

“Mmm, I have everything I want.”

“You’ve got to want something.”

Tormund considered it for a moment, firelight brushing half of his face and shadowing the other. “I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy.”

“ _Worthless, Giantsbane!_ What about maps? A whole map room in the keep, a whole map of the south you’d done yourself? A part of the house for weaving? A new axe? We can get you a new axe.”

“Are you getting grand on me, Snow?”

“You said Stark. Before,” Jon added, gone from bright to uncertain in an instant. “Why did you-”

“Because _little wolf_ wasn’t enough and I knew you’d call me Giantsbane, like you did now. And Jon isn’t long enough for a promise. And if I called you king of anything you’d have stopped to hit me for it.”

“I might’ve pushed you in the snow. I don’t know about-”

“Oh, that’s worse!”

“You weren’t worried about the snow when you set us on the ground!”

“Call it my knee or yours, makes no difference,” Tormund said simply.

Jon laughed. “Is that it, then? We’re alone in our bed in a highly-defended, warm castle and you’re maintaining my dignity to me for- what, exactly?”

“I just called you Snow-”

“Fine, then. Call me little.”

“ _You’re not little._ ”

“ _Have you gone soft on me, Giantsbane?_ ”

“ _No chance._ ”

Jon laughed again as he realized the root of it. “You’re defending my honor.”

“They don’t call it honor in the north, _promised_.”

“You won’t even jest-”

“Give it a few years, will you? Plenty of time to tease you later.” Honest. Tormund was always so honest.

And he was right. Finally, finally, with neither sword nor winter hanging over his head, Jon could believe it. “ _Don’t get too comfortable, either, then._ ”

“ _You haven’t complimented me yet._ ”

“ _I haven’t said your eyes are deep enough to drown in? Or how when you say something difficult and complicated like it’s the simplest thing in the world I want to rip your clothes off?_ ”

“ _You’ve gotten good at speaking._ ”

“ _I should hope so. My language now._ ” Then, “What’s the word? The one you said means the air in your lungs?”

Tormund repeated it, a question.

“Yes. That.”

They didn’t leave the room ‘til Jon could say it perfectly. He expected he’d need it, when they made it home.


End file.
